


Games with Eternity

by Ratzinger



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Aen Elle (The Witcher), Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Complicated Relationships, Elves, Elves are Their Own Warning, F/M, Folklore, Gen, Love/Hate, Magical Realism, Metaphysics, Mysticism, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Books Pre-Games, Pre-Canon, Wizards & Witches & Witchers, Worldbuilding, Xenophilia, Xenophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:41:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 78,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24038296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ratzinger/pseuds/Ratzinger
Summary: "My story, actually, has no beginning. I’m not even sure whether it has actually ended. The past – you have to know – has become awfully tangled up with the future. There was an elf who told me that it is like a snake that bites its own tail. In any moment of time is hidden the past, present and future. In any moment of time lies eternity. Do you understand?"The elves call it the loop of fate. They believe that time repeats itself.Time is a strange master. Time, you might say, is the original storyteller. In this universe, none currently stand closer to this storyteller than Children of Elder Blood and their Otherworldly architects, but, as with most fairy tales, the original material might be less fair than the name connotes.
Relationships: Avallac'h | Crevan Espane aep Caomhan Macha & Eredin Bréacc Glas, Avallac'h | Crevan Espane aep Caomhan Macha/Lara Dorren aep Shiadhal, Cregennan of Lod/Lara Dorren aep Shiadhal
Comments: 92
Kudos: 85





	1. Prologue

_Do you know when stories stop being stories?  
The moment someone begins believing in them._

_-_ **Codringher** _  
_

_No one ever said elves are nice._

\- **Terry Pratchett**

‘Oh, look, another one!’

He raised his head a little, instantly suffering the worst kind of pounding his head had ever experienced. He could not rightly tell if the voices he was hearing really belonged to the people he saw strolling toward him or if he was just drifting in delirium.

‘We should really fix that portal.’

‘With what funds, I wonder? I have been telling you, kick some sense into that cousin of yours! Just before the year’s turn he lobbied for stripping us of the last of the royal grants in favour of xenobiology and genetics research. They already have enough!’

‘I tried talking to him. He took offence, though I don’t think it was about the funding in the end; now we don’t go diving anymore.’

‘That’s just terrible!’

‘I think so too.’

‘Does he think a portal is like a lake you can stick a shifting beacon to and enchant it to clear or fog up, vanish or re-appear as the fancy strikes you?’

‘Stop it, stop it – you’re confusing it.’

It was very confusing – he didn’t understand a thing of what was being said.

‘I don’t care, I just cannot stand this anymore! Every god damn quarter we get an influx of requests to chase and clean up accidental gate fallout. _D'yaebl_ , I am an inter-dimensional portalist, not a janitor!’

‘It is irritating, I understand.’

‘You cannot imagine the paperwork.’

‘Oh, I can. Trust me, it’s not all roses and water lilies in Narsim either.’

‘Nar – what now?’

‘Narrative & Simulations Department. I was transferred half a saovine ago.’

The taller of the two stared at his companion, aghast. ‘You just spin stories!’

‘Now, why do you have to be like this? I was trying to be supportive. We don’t _just_ spin stories. We shift the universal narrative around to manage the intersubjectivity and the emotional valence of other races’ experiences with our people throughout time.’

‘By Dana, I remember now why I always get such a headache when I drink with you. And they pay _you_ more than us too! I’ve had it! Before Velen I will have handed in my application to the army. At least they take these things more seriously than –’

‘Well, let’s still talk about this a little bit before you do that, alright? Right now, we have to do something about the interlocutor,’ he had never seen eyes like this before – big and round like a cat’s. ‘Look at him! He’s shivering – clearly wandered into it under the influence.’

‘Another reveller, I bet.’

‘What’re you going to do with him?’

The young man realised he had begun hyperventilating out of sheer and shock and confusion some time ago. Even the pain in his head seemed to have stopped bothering him.

‘Standard procedure: quarantine for a week until the healers ensure he is both a safe and healthy individual and then the Life Control & Welfare Service will take over.’

‘Ah no, now that you mention it, I think we will get him before Welfare.’

‘What for?’

‘Optics! I agree, he looks like a reveller – perhaps from Terra? Therefore, he falls under “tourist”, not “labourer”. For now, anyway.’

The scene Jove found himself in was taking place on a sandy shore just a stone’s throw away from a beautiful waterfall that fell into the riverbed as silently as saints walked. Yet another sign of delirium.

‘Terra is likely. Though from which time, that’s the question. Anyway, that’s not my problem. I am just a glorified waste remover, apparently.’

‘Whe – where am I?’ Jove managed finally, staring at the two beings who were talking quickly and excitedly, like two rivers, racing each other across small, round pebbles. They looked strange somehow – willowy and… sharp.

‘What does it want?’

‘Explanations.’

‘Can you understand it? Really?’

‘No, but they all want the same thing. If they’re, well, minimally intelligent.’

Jove tried to get up - at which they shook their heads quickly in warning.

‘Who are you? Where am I?’

The more agitated of the two looked at him for a moment, frowning, as if looking for the right word. It did not make him any less beautiful. Then he leaned over Jove, smelling faintly of freshly cut grass and… vodka? And said, in that fast flowing tongue of his, so that even Jove could understand what he meant:

‘ _Faërie_.’

\---//---

AD 517, Terra 333  
 _Summer Solstice_ , Cnoc Áine

The night was close and bursting with the steady song of crickets. Stuffy, really. It had not rained on midsummer’s eve, for once, and not one clod had failed to make note of the miracle over the course of the evening. He’d almost thumped the old tanner for insisting on drama: “tis good Áine’s ache that falls upon the land, cruelly taken against her will as she was by Aulom, the son of Mug; we’ll see terrible drought yet, you’ll see”.

The fool!

How a man otherwise so handy and sound could spout such nonsense, Jove could not understand. For starters, who’d heard of a drought in these parts for a hundred years? Rot took their barley more often than not, for it poured around here mightily, or else some pillaging pest or plague sneaking around the land did its job before the farmers could reap the fruit of their labours. Secondly, a man had to plough the earth if anything was to grow, innit? If you’re a goddess of fertility, how can you not want to be honoured? Mayhap that Aulom fellow had not had the gift of the gab, had not known how to show her a nice time? And with a goddess, it took a proper man, without a doubt.

He’d shown Brigid a nice time, he thought happily, staggering along an overgrown path that led away from the green hill where a great bonfire had raged. Where people had said prayers to the goddess and where they had danced and sung and had jumped through the flames of midsummer for good fortune. Jove had drunk mighty lot tonight, yet it truly seemed to have no effect on him – so light was his step and high his humour.

A proper man, eh? Eh?

He wanted to laugh, he wanted to sing, and he wanted to dance! Only, his thighs itched to his annoyance; bloody nettles! But who would have thought it would take but a fern flower’s magic to make her see sense? Oh, he’d seen the way she had looked at him throughout the night – when he’d twirled the village lasses around the fires and she’d laughed as the foreman – her brother – and the smith’s son competed in stick-pull over her. Well, to hell with those two.

He’d snuck after the girls when they had gone looking for the flowers they would place under their pillows tonight in order to dream about who was intended for them. Jove didn’t know how that trick worked exactly, but a live man was better than a dreamt up one, and this was exactly what he had told Brigid when he’d finally caught her alone in the bracken.

 _Rimpatirallaa ripirapirallaa_ _  
Rumpatiruppa ripirampuu_

He’d even gotten a hand on a blossom of some sort – one she had probably picked up earlier – and showed it to her as they fell, tussling, onto the forest floor. She had not liked that and had cursed at him foully. He didn’t know what a fern blossom was supposed to look like after all; why’d she have to get mad about that? A flower’s still a flower; pretty like. Like her. So pretty, so sweet, so, so…

 _Ratsatsaa ja ripidabi dilla_ _  
Beritstan dillan dellan doo_

Singing to himself, Jove suffered through the heated tremors which the thoughts of the girl’s hot sighs sent down his spine. She’d scratched him there, the little lynx. Had not even apologised, had not let out a peep at all when he’d left her there for a minute, surrounded by crushed foxgloves, verbena and bluebells. He had hoped to lay with her again that night, now that Áine had chosen to bring them together like this, but when he’d turned around again, the maid had vanished. He’d been gutted, truth be told; devil only knows where she’d slipped off so quickly. He’d looked around in the underbrush for a while, but it’d been like looking for a fairy in the shallows – useless.

Ah, that good things never lasted... Fair and still light of waist, inviting and friendly; always smiling, always helpful. She’d been messing with his head for who knows how long. What was he to do about it then? He dared not spit on the gods or spirits, and sure as snakes he would have done so had he not loved his Brigid tonight. Them’s the rules. Besides, everyone knew womenfolk had their secret ways, crafts and tricks up their sleeves they’d hone amongst themselves in wait of nights like these.

Wrestling through the thicket he stopped at the edge of the forest. Swifts were making their first rounds over the fields. He squinted toward the horizon, leaning against a mossy stone of a dolmen that had popped up before him like a mushroom after autumn rain, and belted out the last indecent lines of his song especially loudly, for it was just about time to greet the dawn. Tomorrow – or maybe a day later – he’d take a bottle of berry vodka with him and set things straight with the old foreman – ask for Brigid’s hand. What good would it do him to refuse Jove? Hah, from this day forth until the end of the year, their days would start getting darker again; good people stuck together – and only a fool wouldn’t want a clever lad like him for a son-in-law!

Unfortunately, despite it getting brighter in the night sky by the minute, it was still not bright enough, because down went Jove all of a sudden with all of his singing and swagger, and not a trick, woman’s or otherwise, could have saved him in that moment. Whichever devil had rolled that stone onto his path had done a bloody good job at it. He fell like a log over the stone circle that surrounded the portal and crickets sang to his passing. Not an hour ‘til the sun’s first rays would shine through the smooth stones of the cromlech and illuminate the overgrown forest path that led to the hill where the locals gathered annually for ritual and celebration at the beginning of a new cycle.

But Jove never saw that.

\---//---

_Seachd, hochd, naon... a deich... a do dhreag…_

He had counted twelve long-whiskered cats so far, and even more kept showing up every time he cast his eyes upward. The buildings here by the tributary spiralled all the way into the sky until they bent forward and curled into each other in an alabaster web of ornate stone and hanging vines, thus forming a green and airy canopy over the streets below. On each tiny balcony – and there were too many than was sensible to account for – slept at least one feline. Cats were drawn to ley lines. Back home, he had a cat too – a smoky mouser – and it followed him around absolutely everywhere. He liked to think he was its favourite ley line.

Here though, the young elf did not feel like the favourite person of anyone. Especially not of those yellow eyes that guarded the junction on which sat Gaeth an Gyre by the slowly flowing river of Tuathe.

An elf with an aquiline nose and slightly wavy sunburnt hair was resting against the pillar of an open peristyle, humming to himself. Every now and then something amused him and a set of dimples presented on his handsome face. Each time this happened the young elf’s insides pinched in recognition, yet he did not make a move to either leave or talk to the man. Therefore, someone else took on the honour for him.

They exchanged polite greetings with each other – the elf with the aquiline nose and his colleague – and the newcomer offered something out of a small snuffbox, which his companion refused after short deliberation. The elf who was observing the portal artisans kept further into the shade of the weeping birch tree that had woven itself into the copper frame of a street light. He watched and listened very carefully.

‘Have you ever wondered why there still isn’t a solid unified theory of religious symbolism across the Spiral?’ the chuckler began.

‘I cannot say I have. What for? We deal in practicalities here. Are you experiencing burn out, or what?’

‘No-no, nothing like that. There was just this case recently… and I got saddled with writing up a character assessment after we scanned him – peasant, extroverted, proclivity to delusion and wild excess, romantic rapist; you know, the usual fare for their kind – and then I just so happened to recall the story of Aisling. For certain you’ve heard of Aisling?’

‘Aisling aep Peryáine? It is children’s literature – am I late with offering my congratulations?’

The youth under the weeping birch tree held his breath, but the male with the aquiline nose shook his head.

‘Ah, a shame. Aisling aep Peryáine you say? Didn’t she collect the ears of her lovers in order to graft them onto the plants in her garden so vegetation too could hear the tender notes newly sprouting life makes?’

‘It wasn’t only the lovers’ ears, but also those of the foes she vanquished.’

‘That’s the revisionist account.’

‘It most definitely is not! If anything the lovers bit is revisionist, and I think it’s not hard to guess why. Áine was part of the king’s reconnaissance unit way before our people landed with the Seidhe; there are accounts attesting to her prowess as –’

‘– a gardener, yes.’

‘That’s right,’ he wrinkled his aquiline nose a little when he grinned. ‘As a devout gardener with a double-ended golden spear _“off which the summer sun shone so brightly that it blinded any who dared challenge her.”_ And rich became the soil she strolled upon – as we know, reconnaissance units did _a lot_ of strolling back then.’

The young elf underneath the weeping birch recalled that he had read that story – years ago, to Marusya, their servant girl, who naturally had not known how to read but who had still somehow known to recite parts of this tale to him behind their greenhouse where they grew the region’s most varied collection of ferns and fern blossoms.

‘Hmh, if you put it like that. The version I was told certainly did not stroke any fires of ardour toward artistically hypersensitive souls with a traumatic stress disorder. What about this story and this case you were talking about then?’

‘Well, as I mentioned, the bit about the lovers probably exists because of revisions, given her penchant to love indiscriminately wherever they went; and the foreboding tone of the tale is due to that too, I bet. Politics – there’s no way around it. Now, this _dh’oine_ they brought in: it seems he happened to be at a wrong place at the right time. He must have sung very well for a bugling elk. So well and so wrong, listen to me carefully now, my friend, that he seem to have sung the abandoned gate open at the exact moment when it, due to its inherent instability, could be opened.’

The other elf hawked. ‘What nonsense! The odds of that –’

‘– are phenomenal. By Bhel. He arrived in one piece, after all.’

‘This sounds like balderdash to me. What sector of the Spiral are we talking about? Who sealed – or should I say cocked up – those gates? If it was what the _dh’oine_ uttered then it must have contained the reconnaissance’s original key or –’

‘You know what I think? I think Aisling aep Peryáine, in her time, must have maimed quite a few important people in quite a spectacular fashion in order to become a goddess of love and fertility in that sphere. Doubtless, tradition and collective memory did the rest.’

The elf chewed on the contents from the snuffbox and chortled.

‘My-my, Helnaham – as if talking to a Sage. Why don’t you make a case of it? Give the interpretation some form and publish it. Could inspire puppet productions to put a new spin on the tale at very least. Politics flows from the nursery, as they say.’

_Helnaham. It_ _is him!_

It was then that someone’s firm fingers clutched his shoulder and spun him around so suddenly the youth almost cried out loud.

‘Caranthir! Thank heavens I found you! Just what were you thinking!?’

_‘Maman, I –’_

Feiniel’s temper flared, as mothers’ tempers do. She had no opportunity to give vent to her thoughts, though. A little over half a century ago, Feiniel had met someone here and now that the said someone had finished telling his story, he too noticed how time repeated itself. Her former partner waved at her uncertainly from underneath the peristyle.

The woman’s large hazel eyes clouded over with awkwardness and annoyance, and she sent Helnaham one of her tightest smiles before pulling her son after her and heading resolutely in the opposite direction. Caranthir for his part could think of nothing appropriate to say as he was led away from Gaeth an Gyre – the study and headquarters of intra- and inter-dimensional teleportation experts, safety engineers, and cartographers – up the smooth cobblestone road under the watchful gazes of at least a dozen cats who slept on the numerous little balconies.

‘I thought I had lost you,’ she began. ‘In the capital – can you imagine that? Here for the first time and – how, pray tell, did you know to come to this place?’

‘How did _you_ know I would come to this place?’

‘Do not answer my questions with questions, _weddin_. Did you jump?’

‘No, of course not. I – I asked around. And I would have been back in a flash; you know it!’

‘Of course. No teleportation but he would have been back in a flash – in a city so laden with wards, protective edicts, and teleportation tracing you could just ride in at the head of a travelling circus as soon as arrive “in a flash”.’

‘What difference would it make? My abilities are why I am here, aren’t I?’

He felt her exasperated sigh in his teeth despite following half-a-step behind. Soon they made it off the quiet avenues down by the side of the tributary and re-joined the livelier looking streets, which still seemed far less crowded than he had imagined they would be. Likely it was due to the time of day; surely siesta was honoured universally?

‘You did not really answer my question _,_ _Caranthir.’_

‘Didn’t I?’

She gave him a warning smile that made his ears hot. Her smiles always spoke louder than her words, which, nevertheless, could get pretty loud when it concerned him.

‘You once told me that this is where you had first met. You told it yourself, remember? I simply thought… I thought if I would come here something might happen again.’

A roll of eyes ensued, but the same awkwardness he had briefly glimpsed on her face at Gaeth an Gyre reappeared. Almost as if Caranthir had uttered a covert spell of some kind.

‘And what did you think would happen? Are you a prophet now as well, in addition to a first rate vanishing artist? When you vanished behind the protective barrier back at Buhne, I recall a significant lack of foresight as pertains to getting back inside. Do you remember at all?’

They passed a posse of young women, lounging and talking amongst themselves at an open-air bar under cascades of wisterias that hid a fountain etched into the façade of the villa, and Caranthir, whose arm was still in the vicelike hold of his mother, was certain his ears would catch fire any minute now. This was no longer fair of her; that ‘accident’ had happened before he even knew anything about his abilities. Before the letter and before the visit from the capital. Before he had heard anything about the Purpose and the Plan.

‘I am sorry,’ he stopped suddenly, bringing them both to a halt. ‘I am sorry; I was simply curious and I got impatient. You used to talk about him but you never do anymore, and now I am here. And I would like to know before you must leave.’

For a long while, silence reigned between them as they made their way up numerous little steps which led them onto complicated colonnades that connected streets where one did not expect to find any.

As they passed over hidden cloisters, terracotta terraces, and secret landmarks drowning in greenery, Caranthir could not help but note that his mother who had always expressed contentment and joy over residing in the coastal Tilath na Buhne knew this part of the capital remarkably well. He wondered what it would be like to have a place this complicated and huge on the palm of his hand, clear as crystal with all its intricacies laid bare. It may well have been that out there were many other places, starting with Magh Mheall, the golden land now lost forever to the Fade, that could have surpassed Tir ná Lia, but the magical pull this place exerted over him already felt unparalleled – as if there was no other and never were. Perhaps that same pull had worked on the elf who had sired him as well.

On a narrow footbridge that led across Tuathe Feiniel finally relented.

‘Oh, _feainnewedd,_ ’ she dragged her fingers through his flaxen hair that was a little wavy at the top. Black necked cranes passed underneath the bridge, giving out their rattling calls and following the bend of the waterway with raw precision. ‘I don’t want to fight with you. Especially not now that I am about to lose you. Why must you always insist on reminding me how children are the bane of love?’

The young elf flinched.

‘They bring you to a point where only the most painful of loves – a parent’s love – remains. It eats me whole and I let it gladly, though it squeezes around my neck terribly lest I can be reassured ahead of time that everything will turn out for you.’

‘Why –’

She put a finger on his lips, shaking her head. ‘Don’t take me too seriously, _me wedd_. Wiser people than me know how everything will turn out. I, you see, just do not like the person the contemplation of the possibilities turns me into.’

‘ _Squaess'me._ ’

She drew him to her then, embracing him tightly and for a long time. He had surpassed her in height some time ago, but that did not matter.

‘Do you know which person I would like to be?’ she whispered.

‘Which one then?’

‘One who does not fail to have a little fun in all this… oh, dreadfully serious and important business,’ she laughed against his shoulder, the cool sparkle of her matter-of-fact temperament returning. ‘Moreover, I want to know that _you_ know what is important. Before you are taken out of my hands, yes? I don’t care what these Knowers say; I got you first.’

There was the weirdness of it again that he had tried to shake off earlier when he had taken off toward the estuary; the same nervousness that had been present ever since the Aen Saevherne had visited them years ago.

‘I promised to show you the gardens of history, didn’t I? Well? Come along then!’

The first thing that caught Caranthir off guard was how history smelled like. Hawthorns dominated the landscape of green avenues crowned with imaginative fountains, hidden pergolas and portals that led to shaded niches and mazes of colourful steps which ended in miniature forest glades. Yet in the sweet but strong odour of ever-blooming hawthorns, there was an instantly recognisable undercurrent of something distinctly acrid. No one appeared to notice. Well-dressed elves strolled leisurely under the low-hanging silver willows, some sat and made merry, and someone – somewhere – was playing music. It seemed everyone here had already had up to their ears of history.

‘I don’t begrudge you your curiosity but I am not sure there is anything new for you to learn from either of us _._ We met when it was our turn to meet, we courted and loved – what else is there to say? Our relatives had always been part of the project; there was always a certain probability the responsibilities this entailed would visit upon us.’

The young elf nodded in the learned and wisened way only the very young manage to impress upon others. It did not bother him in the least to think his existence had been necessitated by the needs of the _elle._ If anything, the thought had always excited him. No, that was not it.

‘And he just ran out of love one day and took off?’

‘Ah, Caranthir, you are so young,’ he tipped his chin, frowning at her, and that made Feiniel laugh, at which the boy frowned even harder. ‘Too young to take a stance on love of all things.’

He wasn’t taking a stance; he just didn’t see why Helnaham had to leave them so early.

‘There is no cure for the real thing, you know?’ his mother continued. ‘You would have to be mad to drink the pure spirit. But that doesn’t mean milder, more refined distillates won’t make you quite as happy. Anyway, who said _he_ was the one who “ran out” and “took off”?’

‘Well we stayed behind, and he never visited or showed interest again. Therefore –’

‘Shh! You don’t have half the knowledge to be so smart with me. Yes, we stayed behind, and so what? Should I have left my beautiful tapestries to the moths, left my greenhouses and the sea? Never! I had found my home. His vision differed from mine. Besides, raising a child in the capital – I shiver just thinking about it.’

‘And yet here we are,’ he gestured to the whitewashed paving before them, annoyed.

‘Some choices are beyond me,’ she eyed the installation dedicated to the impermeability of magic defiantly, ‘but I have made peace with it now.’

They stopped before another peculiar statue that depicted their _Elle_ in broken chains, wrapping a boa-constrictor around the corpulent waist of a giggling, one-eyed giant whose two enormous tusks projected menacingly from the side of its mouth. Auberon Muircetach, his long hair gathered in a plait, retained all of his inborn nobility despite the travel-weary looks and outfit, but it was really the snake who stole the limelight. The artist had managed to convey its gaze so menacingly as to leave no doubt about how the scene played out for the giant in the end.

‘They’ve brought in additions, since I was last here,’ Feiniel remarked. ‘Not sure about this one.’

‘Have you not read about our gracious Lord’s adventures?’

‘Of course I have. But who can remember all of them?’

True. Although Caranthir believed that he really had read about most of them; including this one – the Three Hungry Companions. This one was a clever anecdote about irredeemable greed and stupidity, and it began and ended with a feast, as all adventures should have. Looking around he realised many of the statues in this section of the garden had been dedicated to such quests and escapades. The garden was not lacking in even the ones where the Alder King was either riding or being otherwise assisted by the unicorns.

‘Did you know that the very first morphotic projections were developed based on the unicorns’ unparalleled ability to navigate between the spheres thanks to multidimensional anasyn – that is “anamorphotic” vision?’

The son of Feiniel pivoted abruptly toward a parallel avenue where every lateral path leading off into the greenery was hemmed with roses. Something had caught his attention.

‘I am not entirely sure how this sixth sense of theirs translated into innovations in magical communications, but I know that our navigators, for instance, train their entire lives to develop a similar intuitive “vision” for perceiving the gravitational fields and stabilising the string-ripples whenever they create rips in space-time – with the help of their enhanced sextants, I mean. And it still takes an extraordinary amount of talent now, whereas we used to be able to just ignore such obstacles before the last Conjunction.’

Feiniel followed and listened thoughtfully. She did not know much about any of this, truth be told, but it was clear to her that the small world of their estate back at Tilath na Buhne had long ago ceased to offer Caranthir what he needed and was subconsciously reaching after. Even without her motherly biases, and without the damn Plan, she had always felt he was meant for much more. Or perhaps she had merely hoped?

In many ways, she was happy for the boy: he would receive answers to questions she could not even pose, much less answer, and he would be learning from elves the likes of whom came along only every few millennia. There was no telling what it would do to him. Perhaps she would not even recognise him the next they met. Perhaps everything would turn out well enough, though. You had to have a little faith. And yet, Feiniel did not regret her decision to keep Caranthir away from the inevitable for as long as possible. Such was the privilege of mothers.

‘Is this the assigned reading then?’ she asked lightly, reaching for the crimson blossom climbing up the side of a lightly armoured brigadier and inhaling.

Unsurprisingly, Caranthir had brought them to the part of the garden that Feiniel had always felt a little uncomfortable in. It was silly, of course, because armed forces were meant to project an aura of intimidation and awe, whether you faced them or stood safely behind their backs. She had never been one to fall head over heels for military types; Helnaham had come the closest, and even that was only via association because of his profession. But she could see the appeal, and so could the sculptors under whose hands the most magnificent depictions of admirals, generals, cavalry units, navigators, and first wanderers had been born. When partaking in the dedication and determination expressed in every carefully wrought line in their face and physique, one could almost forget about the essence of their bloody cause.

‘Midir Léith,’ Caranthir straightened himself unconsciously under the gaze of the short-haired, mysteriously smiling _elle_ who sat on a giant broken steering wheel and was fastening his skates among the wounded soldiers and exhausted magicians. ‘I saw his impression in plaster once, when we were down by the portside for servants. Lightning on Ice. He holds the record for the fastest set of transitions between the spheres – known or _unknown_! There’s been no one like him. That is, if you don’t count the time in the early days of the Wandering, perhaps, but they say rules were different then and –’

‘You admire him.’

‘And how! He saved countless lives,’ he beamed. ‘I will, too,’ he added in a moment and his words rang with beautiful resolve.

‘I hope you will,’ she smiled. ‘Neither of you is certainly lacking in boldness and lofty ambition.’

‘He did not do it because of ambition! It was a matter of duty. Honour. As it should be.’

‘You’re right, _squaess'me._ I am merely being your mother again,’ she changed tact, realising it was too early for humour as pertained to weighty matters that touched young hearts. ‘You won’t deny me this pleasure, will you, _me wedd_?’

He barely took notice, whirring on.

‘Ambition is secondary. Not the most important at all, but – For the righteous, for those ordained with power it is only natural. If rules change or false friends,’ he indicated toward a pretty gruesome display of one of the former Dearg Rhuadri cavalry commanders’ last moments under the horns of several fierce unicorns, ‘change the rules for us, then there is simply no other way but to dare and do!’

A pause.

‘Well!’ Feiniel took the boy by the arm and made a move away from the part of the exhibition where youthful energy and idealism could go into overdrive. ‘At any rate, you are not here to join the military, but to study; with the Aen Saevherne, no less.’

Caranthir snorted, but it was quite good-natured. ‘Do you honestly think that is safer?’

‘I don’t know. You never know with Knowing Ones. But, as they say, while it is well and good to travel with courage –’

‘– it is even better to travel with knowledge.’

‘Yes. So, before you know exactly what Midir Léith did wrong in the end, please, do not become Lightning on Ice.’

They made it into the quiet depths of the garden where everything was sparser, from visitors to marble on plinths to the cultivation of the wild. Nightingales and blackbirds had begun their evening practice and the sweet but slightly acrid smell of hawthorns gave way.

‘Did you not love my father?’

‘Did I say so, _weddin_?’ she shook her head. ‘What is it with all these questions today? Helnaham was never unpleasant to me if this is what you fear. I don’t understand.’

For a moment, he considered how to argue his point. There was something strange, wrong almost, about parents not staying together, not vowing lasting loyalty and affection at least for the duration of raising their children together. How could it not have been the natural outcome of loving someone? Yet, Caranthir also knew that his views were considered a little ‘different’ – idealistic, beautiful, and simple. Perhaps he wasn’t explaining himself well enough.

‘You were part of the same project. You were brought together by the same purpose. You claim it could not have been otherwise. And you had me. Your “purpose.” I do not understand why this wasn’t enough. Does destiny not apply to everybody?’

His mother looked at him hard. Their conversations usually ended on such looks, but today, Caranthir thought, would be an exception. Today, she had to answer, had to tell him something – anything!

‘We will not be seeing each other for a while after today. Which is why we will not part on a bad note. I will tell you one thing though, and I pray you will get it into your pretty head before someone catches your own eye one day,’ she always grew several heads when she set about like this. ‘Do not mix up destiny and love. One without the other spells already more than enough trouble.’

‘And that is me – trouble,’ he laughed weakly, entirely without humour. ‘Right?’

Feiniel froze. For the moment she saw clearly and cursed herself for her temper. For presuming to know everything about the boy she had brought into this world, raised, and was now letting go in search of his own purpose – confused, vulnerable, and tormented. Ah, how typical: you set out meaning well, and still… Had she been selfish? Was she to blame for failings that had not appeared as failings at the time but as a relief and good advice?

‘Please, do not think that.’

‘Do not ever think that, my little ley line,’ she repeated, leaning into his side once more before stepping away. And despite the warmth of her reassurance it confused him, this sadness, for instead of anger and tears there was… helplessness. Resignation. Acceptance.

She composed herself. _Ah, curses on all of them here! Give or take a few dozen – it hardly makes a difference._

‘Anyway, yours is a question you should put to your new teacher,’ she added, signalling over his shoulder. ‘You might have more in common with him than you think.’

At first, Caranthir almost jumped at the implication, but it was still just the two of them, and he felt embarrassment nip at his ears again.

The garden, which appeared to close in on itself as they ventured into its rising depths, opened up unexpectedly on its western side where dogwood mingled with cherry blossoms around a small clearing that overlooked Tir ná Lia. Awash in the tangerine gold of the setting sun rested two figures, casting long shadows across the floor of the Garden of Stories: a man and a woman. Aen Saevherne. They stood close together, her gaze seizing the skyline’s stretch seaward while his belonged solely to her. Wind tore at their robes, yet whereas the male had planted his feet steadily in the soil, holding his ground against the gales and sheltering his partner, the woman, through whose long, wild hair the world’s life-giving star shone on all who approached them in the golden hour – she was contented with giving herself to the wind.

Most elves knew about the sad fate of Lara aep Shiadhal, later known simply as Lara Dorren – ‘the exile’. And though so did Caranthir and Feiniel, neither of them spoke, since there were no words that could have made the echo of the fate which they were witnessing here any kinder; or true.

Of Avallac’h’s first and only visit, Caranthir retained a distinct sense of unease that had twisted him about over how to carry himself around the sorcerer. Which was strange and embarrassing in its own right because the Knowing One had been very friendly and patient with him. He had quickly found himself wanting to earn his approval. They had talked, mostly about Caranthir: his interests, worries, opinions. Somehow, all he had told the Sage had sprouted new questions whenever he responded. His own childishness made his skin crawl now that he thought of it. Yet, by the end of his tests, he had felt reassured. None of his ‘incidents’, for which he’d regularly gotten into trouble, had raised any alarm with the Knower.

It was unusual, though not unheard of, for the Aen Saevherne to conduct magical examinations on young sources before they’d had at least rudimentary professional training; that was what the Academy was for. Therefore, the elves they knew at Buhne treated this visit as a great honour, if a little bit ominous one, while the humans who served in the house of Feiniel had started treating him as if he’d been marked. In effect, they became extraordinarily diligent, polite, and almost invisible around their young master, but amongst themselves, Caranthir was regarded as a leper. Silly, two-faced creatures; what did they understand? He had been merely annoyed, until he had discovered that Marusya, whom he had often played with in the past, was much of the same opinion as the rest of her kind. After she developed varicose veins in her legs in her middle-age and could no longer tend to their greenhouses, and they had to sell her, Caranthir still couldn’t forgive her the duplicity and had arranged it so she would be climbing up and down the stairs, picking tangerines, for the rest of her life at a citrus grove in the Svayeti mountains.

At the concealed heart of the elven garden lay many reminders of the fabled prophesiers and sorcerers of the Alder Folk, who wrested their miracles and works of art from the metaphysical in their everlasting game with infinity, and in whose hands ripened their fate. Their reputation was such that although even the nobility was frequently unsettled by their undertakings, nobody could touch them and, without doubt, all were indebted to them.

Bel Ysri aep Mawrigan, the Shining One. Shiadhal Chwyfleian, the late Queen. Mathurin aep Torquilin... Dérgreine, who had stopped terrestrial time, then figured it was a bad idea and bent it inward instead; alongside with her own sanity. And... Héloïse aep Cailleach?

Caranthir figured some arrangements out quickly enough, while others, he suspected, demanded centuries’ worth of contemplation. For various reasons, many representatives of the Aen Saevherne preferred to go by riddles and “concepts” rather than more literal depictions of their likeness. And you could forget about name plates – you either knew it, or you did not. It was thought that most of them simply did not care very much. A fact that was very much welcomed by sculptors and stone-workers alike, who were therefore welcome to exercise their artistic licence. Although, it was a poorly kept secret that Ithlinne Aegli had once flown into blind rage at a proposed idea for commemorating the prophetess who “specialised” on world’s ending. She had consequently made some of her pettiest predictions in the following years. Upon reflection, vox populi had agreed that the proposal had indeed been poorly worded.

Eventually, Feiniel and Caranthir made it upon an elaborate scene set inside a circle of lunar stones.

Under the broad crown of a majestic white alder tree, elves materialized out of thin air. Their figures were only half-formed: naught but emptiness gaping over their hearts, vestiges of those who followed behind them to be glimpsed through the empty cavities of their chests. Half a face, quarter of a leg, the beginnings of an elegant collarbone above a scantily covered breast which was sharply cut in half as if drawn with a scalpel. A lonely hand of a woman holding onto the wrist of a child that did not exist.

Caranthir could not take his eyes off that hand for a very long time.

His mother stood some way off, near the trunk of the unusual tree. A unicorn, its pure marble skin glistening in the disappearing sun’s carmine rays, had laid down under the great alder tree and placed its head in the lap of a young maid whose hands caressed its strong neck lovingly, entwining in its thick mane. Her lips were parted in a whisper, her eyelids heavy.

‘Is this the first Evocation? The song of sealing sung before the beginning of the voyage?’

‘First. Or maybe the second? Sealing or unsealing, who can tell the difference?’

Above the maid and the unicorn towered a sorcerer – an archimago, “the first and final form” of Power awakening inside a living being. Or, as this ideal of creation came to be known: an Aen Saevherne. The depth of the trance he was undergoing was palpable, his right hand straining in a specific configuration over the creature’s gently bowed head, while his left stretched toward the ghostly procession behind them – summoning.

Caranthir was certain he had not made a mistake.

Feiniel smiled warmly at him, the day’s dying sunlight dotting her hair with shining embers which shone all the brighter in contrast to the shadows of the falling evening, drawing her tighter into the soft, green darkness of the garden. ‘Look again,’ she whispered.

Long after, Caranthir would remember what had brought him to the realisation on that evening in the Garden of Stories, but by then, it would no longer bear any effect on him at all. In order to see it and understand, because eyes alone were not enough here, he had to be very-very still and forget, for the moment, his desire to be right. And then he was allowed to see a piece of the truth, that most precious and capricious of essences – in the blades of grass which bent away from the creature instead of supporting their growth on its inert form, in the curl of its hair which trembled imperceptibly at the touch of warm wind coming in from the palaces above Easnadh, in the softest of notes of primeval magic ever-fading. In the unmistakable sensation of being watched – by one equine eye cast inside the most precious amell marble.

He jumped, instinctively, and took a step back. That acrid smell of ever-blooming hawthorns, of history, presented itself again to him.

‘It’s alive…’ he swallowed. ‘Maman?’

She didn’t speak at first, only took his hand in hers and held it. Everything came at a price in their people’s story. Every cause had an effect. And you had to have faith, just a little faith.

She squeezed his hand. ‘So are we.’

But Caranthir had already begun to see pieces of the truth.

The _shadows_ of the absent and half-formed statues of elves were entirely intact – every last one in their wholesome glory, down to tiniest of details, from adult to child. Being summoned from the void, their shadows fell on verdant grass underneath the great tree of the Alders. And instead of nothing, there was something.

You had to have faith that what happened was meant to happen. That what was meant to happen would happen. After all…

‘Out of nothing, nothing comes.’

\---//---

Sitting cross-legged on a rock was a little human girl with a painted face. Some way off from a sparse line of spruces that dotted the slopes behind her, she barely gained any vantage here above the gently swaying grass, but this was as far out into the open steppe as she dared to go. The child’s eyes were glued to the skies above the boundless emptiness that stretched out before the wilds of the north.

Hanging high in the sky above the snow-capped mountain ridges was aurora borealis. Like a brilliant emerald road it forked and snaked through the air, revealing an avenue of stars in the fast approaching gloaming. The dance of light had begun slowly, long before the sun was reduced to an ember behind the girl’s back – a dark violet aura clung to it, then pink stretched forth, and then scarlet shimmered. How beautiful it was – northern lights at midsummer!

Grazing yonder, the one-horns, who she had quietly followed here, raised their heads. The wind, which had been mild all day, was picking up, and you could not tell where it was blowing from. It brought with it the taste of icicles.

The girl hardly noticed anything at first, gathering her knees against her chest, until the tongue of another green flame in the air flickered especially beautifully. The wind moaned. Confusion struck as her eyes fixated on the spot where air had rippled like a lake’s surface. The harder she stared, the more it seemed to her that distance opened up in that spot on the tip of the green serpent’s tongue. As if _there_ was very nearly _here_. Like distance had grown thin. The northern lights shimmered, the air rippled again and burst, carrying the smell of ozone across the sea of grass.

Amidst flashing green and violet, a ribbon of white light appeared – it snapped against the calm rise and ebb of colours like a whip and sparks fell from its lashing as if stars had started trickling down the skies. With angry neighing and thudding hooves, one-horns took off and down swept an icy gale across the plains. The girl hesitantly climbed down the rockface and hid behind it, still unable to tear her eyes from the wildly dancing lights above the mountain ridges, where a bright ribbon was making its way between the spirits of the sky, riding the head of the emerald serpent that, again and again, curled around in a sorcerous noose to bite its own forking tails. The trail of light then veered off its leisurely course suddenly and set after the one-horns.

Faintly, she begins to hear singing in the wind and terror takes her heart.

_Elves._

Run! She has to run quickly now. Quickly and quietly, and she must not stop until she reaches the marked paths. Through the trees, up the slopes, down the hole. Through the trees, up the slopes, down the hole. Quickly and quietly. Do not listen! Do not listen! Do not listen to their singing. They are hunting, they are merry, they are lusting, they are scary. Run, run, run now! Run!

She runs but not a stone’s throw away from the edge of the treeline, she comes to an abrupt stop, almost falling nose over tail. It is snowing gently between the trees. She blinks rapidly, breathing fast and loud like a rusty saw’s crackle. In that one spot, between the trees, it is definitely snowing. At midsummer. And in the snow fall stands a tall man. Looking at her. She cannot go that way. She cannot turn around. She cannot do anything. There is nowhere to hide in the steppe. She can only stare at the snow that falls in perfect circle around the tall man, who is holding a staff, and breathe. Breathe hard, savour it, and pretend she does not hear the terrifying singing in the wind. She pretends so hard her eyes start to prickle. The steppe that stretches between the wilds of the north and the land of the elves is awash in the colours of aurora borealis.

The man looks at her, or in her direction, for a little longer. Considering. He then lifts a finger to his lips, shaking his head slowly. And suddenly, that sensation of distance again in her field of vision. Air appears to grow thin around him and it ripples slightly. It curves where it shouldn’t curve. He disappears in a flash of light. The snow keeps falling a moment longer and then stops altogether.

She falls over.

The hunters sing.

\---//---

‘More wine! Fill those carafes up and get six new bottles of Ambrosillé from the cellar. Yonka, replace that decanter, you dolt. Hurry up now! Hop-hop! Stop dawdling, Mikal!’

They always wanted more, and there was always more at hand. As the night dragged on, you would think the elves would have already quenched their thirst thrice-over. And maybe in other households it was so, but in theirs that was rarely the case. Tables bowed with finest food and wine had to replenish themselves ceaselessly, or the magic would be broken. And they’d all face the consequences. Tonight was looking to be especially long and difficult. Mistress was entertaining an important guest; a guest that made Boyana’s hair stand up and she could not tell if it was from fright or something else entirely. But you couldn’t let that show, of course. They only cared if you let it show.

‘Quickly-quickly, let’s get it out there,’ she received the next batch of alcohol, eight for her and eighteen for them, supported the shaking tray in Mikal’s hands just in time, and off they were again.

Moving swiftly as shadows along the walls of the peristyle, slipping around niches, ducking under ledges that supported sculptures of birds of all shape and form, they made their way to where the feast was laid out. Ambrosillé went there, among the remains of capercaillie and grouse, roast salmon, lobster tails, bowls of black caviar and a variety of mushroom patés, away from persimmons, minted strawberries, meringues floating in sweetened birch sap, rhubarb crème brûlée, halva, and spiced cream on top of shots of apple brandy. With that it was eight carafes on her tray and twelve a piece on theirs still left – so far, so good! Next, the individual recliners. That always took time and had to be managed with painful care, so their presence wouldn’t become an eyesore in someone’s enjoyment. She sent the sniffling, “Wonky” Yonka another glare; dropping the schnapps like that – she’d be whipped when they found out! That girl had a lot to learn.

Music rang under the arcades, haunting as bells in the fog. Illusions – beautiful and horrifying – danced around the tall goldfish fountains that had been enchanted to gush with golden rain. And under the spraying gold, bewitched by the elves’ illusions, twisted and turned some humans Boyana did not know. They had been dressed up all lordly, which made it look awkward and embarrassing in her opinion. Humans could never look as beautiful, as free and clever as the elves. High as kites on fisstech, and who knows what else, the poor idiots were playing out something the elves called “a midsummer night’s dream”. From time to time, some of her mistress’ guests would join the play briefly and drag one or several of them off into the alcoves. She tried not to look. Still, how she hated that trick of theirs – the gold rain that shone all pretty at night, but stuck to skin like honey and turned to horse piss next morning. Beautiful, but cruel. Always beautiful and cruel.

Four carafes and another seven. And the decanter.

Stepping around a naked young thing, who was staring vacantly into the dream performed, Boyana slid through the weeping figs and palms that surrounded an elevated porch where her mistress would be entertaining her guests. Before she could set the decanter down by a giant, colourfully etched samovar, and disappear just as noiselessly as she had arrived, she stepped on something soft and squishy. And that something moaned at her, in pain.

‘Oi, what weird dreams. Oi-oi-oi… I always thought they’d be smaller. “Little people” we call ‘em. Little people…’

She almost stepped on it again just to make it shut its gob, but then took the opportunity to quickly slide the liqueur onto the low table while her mistress was preoccupied – accepting strawberry after strawberry in the lap of her guest whom she had already fitted with her own headpiece decorated with peacock feathers. Boyana did not have to take a second look at the black and gold pelisse with red trimmings at the throat, undone under the hands of her mistress, nor at the sabre leaning against the long chair. She did not have to recall the effortless command in his cheerful tone when he addressed anyone who had attended tonight. Her sense of self-preservation had been kindled by a single look at the proud stretch of his shoulders and the penetrating gaze of his green eyes. She had looked at him when he hadn’t been looking and that had been enough. Boyana retreated quickly into the safety behind the palm leaves.

‘But you are little,’ the muttering on the floor continued. ‘Like me! You must know… Tell me, how do I get back home again?’

_What rubbish did they feed you? What are you, even?_

Feeling the leering look of those green eyes on her, Boyana kicked the mutterer’s outstretched hand aside and made off in haste. Bloody tourists! Here only for the elves’ entertainment... She had to play her part, swiftly and silently; why couldn’t they? The only thing that mattered on this hot summer night was that everyone was entertained, and that wine, food, and powder kept flowing.

Four carafes to go.

\---//---

What the little _dh’oine_ could not have known was that the elf who’d made her hair stand on end was “special” in more than one way. For starters, he was very ambitious, which was aided by the fact that he was also _very good_ – at what he did, and at separating the important from the unimportant. When _elle_ were celebrating, he had been hard at work, and had only recently returned to the world of the Alder Folk. For the masses to play, those who could do had to pave the way.

Consequently, he was also the one who had brought the little idiots the servant was trying not to look at with him. As if her shame at new blood not knowing its place could have washed off some that was inherent in herself. Owing to that blessed lack of imagination, she could not have fathomed that this elf was also doing those _dh’oine_ a favour, really. A small, belated gift in honour of Midaëte when the order of their world had been upended. Because tomorrow, they would find themselves part of quite a different dream.

The sweetness of strawberries and peppery liqueur against his lips soured imperceptibly. _Noblesse oblige._ Let no one ever say he was not generous.

Though, naturally, he would benefit first.

Unless you owed them a favour, there was nothing to gain from following the Sages’ requests flatly. Meanwhile, altering the terms by even a little, he thought, drawing a delighted sigh from his partner’s lips, was already bringing him a great deal of satisfaction. Of no small weight was the fact that Madame Periwinkle here adored her little shows and was a tremendously generous, well-connected, and well-informed host. There were those who frowned out of principle upon what she allowed at her parties and there were those who saw it as quaint or even uninteresting. Sooner or later though, he thought, they really had to come around, for this was a woman with a sense of humour! And Eredin Bréacc Glas had never been one to neglect a lady’s deepest, darkest desires, whatever they had been.

\---//---

Jove dragged himself through smoky fog and incense, cold and hot all at once. Everywhere he turned, new weirdness stared back at him. Everything glowed like brassy gold. The world vibrated and curved. Someone had stretched a silver lining over shapes and banged on it now as if the world were a drum. And he could do nothing to stop his heart from beating to the same rhythm. The trees played on and on – fast music rang from their flutes and pipes, long-necked lutes and liras, and a strange droning instrument that boasted strings, a keyboard and a crank you had to turn. It rang on and on. When in one moment he was fucking a lass, in the next he was the lass. He did not know who he was for the next little bit, but it did not matter much. When darkness fell, his head felt like it was being stuffed full of straw. When darkness fell, he thought he felt bubbles explode inside his ears. But his mouth kept breathing, his ears kept hearing, and his legs could not stop dancing.

Someone had lit a fire under his feet. He kept dancing. Happily! As if his life depended on it, he kept dancing with unicorns and slender, long-necked creatures he did not know the name of. Until they dropped him and danced amongst themselves around a wicker-totem of red and white roses. They danced and turned with restraint and beauty at first, swinging from wave to wave, then quickening their steps, hitting the earth underneath with their heels to the beat of the drum and it rang out hollow each time, like taking a hammer to a shield. Rain was falling. It may have been fire or gold or stars actually, but it was raining on all of them. And their men had thrown off their shirts as they measured up against each other in a wild dance of pirouettes and spins, high leaps and jumps, squatting kicks and half-turns. The music rang out, the world shifted and curved.

And the elves danced.

\---//---

When Eredin stepped out for air, the midsummer night’s dream was still ongoing. Probably running its third or fourth interpretation. Nearby, leaning against a column that was decorated with acanthus leaves, sat a young human girl. She was very still, and very lost.

After a brief moment of contemplation, he recognised her.

\---//---

Shadows danced on tall grass under flashing aurora borealis and the elves sang. Joyfully this time; in praise to their gods and the night.

It was on nights such as these that the power that had slipped through their fingers could be felt returning to the Alder Folk. Like the unicorn’s blood now trickling down his gauntlets, it had flown away, leaving them with mere echoes of their former glory. And yet, on nights like these, that echo started to sing in them. In him – in front of whom the Spiral had always lain open like the blossoms of magnolia. Just reach out and pick it up. One could not deny what was written into their essence since the very beginning, when they first emerged from the night.

Of course, nights in the world of the Aen Seidhe were equally charming in their own right. Time passed mercilessly there, or so it felt like, and everything ate itself, leaving little the same. After the Conjunction, they had begun reminding Eredin of the old nights that had been present long before light had started defining the night’s absence. Thick and viscous, darkness unfolded inside wood and stone, and within it you could find just about anything. Or it could find you. Each time, he and his riders left a little more behind inside that darkness. Blood, madness, and nightmares – their gifts to the creatures that had swarmed that earth after the cataclysm. Creatures that were ripping out, root and stone, everything that the world held, as they had always done anywhere they had mushroomed up. Until they reached the darkness and would be granted that too. For whomever already had, more of the same would be given.

His musings were broken when he caught a whiff of ozone in the air around him. He also heard someone crying nearby – shocked, high-pitched, afraid. Perhaps the two things were unrelated.

‘It appears you have a problem,’ a familiar, soothing voice spoke over his shoulder.

‘In addition to omniscience you have added omnipresence to your arsenal. That is a problem.’

‘You’re very kind. I merely happened to be in the area.’

‘Nonsense. Nobody “happens” to be in this area.’

‘Even so.’

‘Couldn’t resist the thrill of the chase?’

‘Couldn’t resist learning the outcome.’

‘Ah. The sheer privilege of your caste. Why get your own hands dirty?’

‘Prudence, rather than privilege. No privilege can forgo noblesse oblige.’

They greeted – the commander of the Dearg Ruadhri and the head of the Aen Saevherne. They were of same stature and standing, the same humour at times and, every once in a blue moon, you could witness the evidence of one in the other. Leaving all this aside, they preferred the play of contrasts to harmony.

The cry that rang out again, being distinctly female upon further consideration, agitated the unicorn, whose glamour wavered, the eyes of the creature turning wildly in its eye sockets.

The Fox scrunched his nose. ‘Aren’t you going to do anything?’

‘And what good would that do?’

‘Lead. By example. Isn’t that your style?’

‘It isn’t necessary for a hawk to bend over backwards for common hens, who are bound to figure out what is good for them one way or another. Unlike you, I don't require my prey to love me.’

The Sage’s lips stretched into a paper-thin smile. It was terrifyingly friendly.

‘I follow the protocol, whereas you –’

‘You divine the protocol.’

‘– catapult yourself out of your previous commander’s omni-shambles on the back of base fun; and surprisingly costly fun at that,’ he leaned forward on his staff. ‘You may as well play roulette with plague, seeing as your prisoners are untreated and unvaccinated. Though, at least I see now how you managed to stabilise the Hunt’s turnover so successfully. Bravo!’

The hunt excited the elves’ hearts; if passion were to break in violence, it was better to let it do so on the road and not at home, where different rules held. They both knew this. Inspecting the rust-coloured unicorn’s head for damage, Eredin thus ignored the barb. This was about something else. He gave a signal to tighten the leads as the creature snapped its neck in his direction unexpectedly and the Knowing One cast a quick spell. Their catch settled against crushed grass.

It all came down to the condition of the head; rot always started at the head, where everything precious could be found.

‘I think you may have meant “us” in place of “you”. I am getting us out of the base, though fun, mistakes of one of your own,’ he crouched and felt around the base of the creature’s horn. Then, he ventured a guess. ‘Pick one, Avallac’h – _dh’oine_ , or the unicorn. I am not about to allow you to scavenge both from underneath my nose.’

There was whistling and the stomping of hooves. Shouts, excited and jeering. He would have to have a word with his field medic afterward; anyone’s waking up en-route posed a credible threat to both the rider and the carried and thus, was to be avoided under all circumstances. The wailing, which had not subsided, was suddenly broken by a dull thud, which also silenced the general hubbub among the riders.

‘As ever, you prove yourself to be the one blunt instrument the people of the Alders really cannot do without.’

The calming spell on the unicorn snapped.

Pulling away quickly, Eredin looked up, acutely aware that he had just lost the attention of Crevan to a _dh’oine._ He could get so testy at times.

The kitten who had been causing such unnecessary ruckus was a red-head. Skinny. Pale. He could not tell whether she was comely at all though, as she was hiding her face behind that shaggy carpet of hers. A modicum of modesty was an excellent sign, though! No obvious injuries or awkwardly protruding bones in sight. Weeping silently, not trying to run off or scratch her own eyes out in hysteria. Not trying to bite Imlerith. In conclusion, it seemed that no lasting harm had been done.

It also looked like no one else had come out of the trance.

‘Why are we standing around, gentlemen? This stage, though impressively lit, seems a little sparse for celebration, don’t you think?’

Most never needed to be told to do the obvious. As long as the orders were being given by those who had earned the right to give them. From the tension in the air and from the contempt on Imlerith’s face it was clear that he had just been ordered to do something he did not want to do by someone who had not earned such a right, but who you could not easily deny either.

‘Was she attempting to escape?’ he inquired, predicting the answer.

His captain shook his head and twisted the red hair around his fingers. The girl’s neck stretched out pitifully like a small rabbit’s. At least Imlerith had removed his gauntlets… well, of course he had.

‘Then I see no reason to punish her any further nor slow ourselves down.’

‘Will you hand her over along with the others?’

The prisoners always underwent medical examinations, vaccinations, and selective memory erasure. If they were deigned fit for manual labour, the majority of them were fitted with mental blocks against escaping through the barriers at the same time. An insurance policy. What became of the rest, Eredin did not know, though an educated guess, or two, could have been made by anyone in human resources.

_I give chase, bring them down for us, and you and yours bite through their necks when you drag them into your den._

Eredin glanced at the Fox. Their branch of the military had always owed plenty to the research and enhancements prepared at Myr; now more than ever. His vague distaste, he realised, was of more personal nature, and therefore, of little overall importance. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help but wonder sometimes, what it would be like: to collect blood tithe, but let someone else do the reaping. And then to make demands. The Sage had pulled out a dragon fruit from somewhere and was peeling it with practiced disinterest. That practiced disinterest on that triangular face made the Sparrowhawk smile.

The _word_ of the Aen Saevherne, which allowed their caste ridiculously much even after their most colossal debacle to date, held no sway over Dearg Ruadhri. Such authority had always been exclusively reserved for their commander, and the Elle. And should their venerable Leader have been incapacitated, or partial in their judgment, then the loyalty of the riders should have remained undivided and belonged to no one but their brothers-in-arms and their commander. He was pleased to see his efforts to have that principle reaffirmed had not gone in vain.

‘Let her go, Imlerith.’

To his surprise, life sprung into the little weed as if she had been hit by lightning when he gave the order. The girl scurried away from them both, her fingers picking the alien soil as she stumbled into dirt before the wizard who had intervened on her behalf. Touching his boots with those fingers. Going so far as to dare raise her eyes on him. Avallac’h remained unseeing and unchanged, and ate his dragon fruit.

If those wet, utterly unremarkable eyes had not been mad with fear, Eredin thought with growing bemusement and repulsion, they could have been shining with sincerest gratitude.

\---//---

He looked at the girl again, closely this time: small, naked, and skinny with flat, boyish breasts and wiry arms and legs. Her hair had been washed and they had painted her face so well that it jarred against the starved appearance of her body. They had clothed her in finery and then someone else had taken those clothes off her again. And in the resulting dissonance the truth of her essence had once again become bare to see. Her value to his people was to be found in her insignificance.

_You prayed so fervently to your gods. You begged them to deliver you from nightmares and let someone save you. Poor fool, if you truly think they sent you a saviour in that elf!_

Ignoring familiar calls from underneath the arcades, Eredin walked up to where she sat. The girl did not seem to notice him. He touched her gold-flecked hair, running it between his fingers, yet still she did not react. He finally took her by her bony shoulders, leaned her against the column and made her look at him. The vacant impression persisted. As if the mind had already been scrubbed free of unnecessary ballast. There was no fear in those unremarkable eyes, but none of the gratitude he had seen earlier either. Truly infuriating, that.

But what could you do? Their impressionability was one of their few charms.

He drank and put his arm around her shoulders. They turned toward the courtyard, where a male _dh’oine_ dressed as the Queen of the Elves was proclaiming her undying love for an illusion of an ass by prostrating before it and offering it its horn. The donkey kept flicking its tail against the Queen’s face at which she expressed her profound thanks.

‘Remarkable, what a little faith can do, isn’t it? It can rip your entire world apart and out spring all of these… possibilities,’ he told his unresponsive somnambulist. ‘What if elves were just a story men told themselves. What if man was just like an elf? What if you were real and we were not?’

The fictitious elves sang praises to their fictitious Queen whose noble heart was bursting with love for a base beast of burden. What unthinkable possibilities!

‘Do you know one important thing that makes us different from you?’ he leaned in to whisper after a moment’s thought. ‘We never get lost. We know exactly where we are all of the time. And thanks to that, we know who we are wherever we are, whenever we are. While you don’t. You simply lack the time to figure it out.’

_And so you entertain us with trying to be everything. With the possibility of everything being present and possible all at once in that brief moment during which you are._

‘Would you not like to try again? It’s your last chance, you know? You can be one of us tonight. Even if you don’t know where you are or… what is rightly even going on, let’s be honest,’ he drank, smiling with grim amusement. ‘I am willing to allow that it must make things very novel for you. It’s enviable! Think about it: wouldn’t it be nice to experience it all for the first time? Step inside what these tales of yours so vividly describe and see if there is truth to them. The beauty, the magic, the… deep, eternal _feeling_.’

He snorted.

‘Wouldn’t that be pretty?’

The girl, as expected, neither agreed nor disagreed. Only shivered a little, at which he offered her a sip. She didn’t agree or disagree with the offer either, bless her! What an agreeable soul! None of that “cannot touch fairy food and drink” bogus that peasant had given him earlier. He patted the girl’s head. Who would have thought so much romantic imagination could fit inside minds so simple?

Shame almost, what was to become of them in the service of the greater good.

\---//---

‘We settle on seven then. Have them delivered to Myr by noon, in two days’ time,’ Avallac’h threw, preparing to leave. ‘Needless to say, I don’t want to deal with any of their grievances regarding further mistreatment by your subordinates. So, kindly remind them of that, will you?’

‘So you actually interact with them in a meaningful manner,’ Eredin took his steed further to the side. ‘What do you talk about before you sedate them? The vagaries of yesteryear’s turnip crop?’

‘Eredin, to them I am like… let’s say a doctor, yes? How would you like it if healers did not convey what they were going to do for you and how it would be best for you to cope with it, because you were too hysterical to see the greater good in the treatment? We are not animals.’

‘Of course not. And, as a good doctor, you naturally put compassion for your “patients” above everything else, am I right?’

‘As an exceptional doctor, I save as many lives as I can,’ the Knower took another bite out of the dragon fruit and threw the rest to the hounds. ‘But you are not wrong either. I remember you found my “humanity” admirable not too long ago.’

The air trembled with a compressed thunderclap.

‘Stress has wide-reaching effects on their immune-system, the work is precise, and my patience has its limits,’ he stepped up to the portal. ‘Besides, it simply ruins the atmosphere.’ And disappeared in it.

\---//---

They all benefitted. Even the _dh’oine,_ in the end _._

After all, much of the magical and scientific advances that the new rulers of the world of the Aen Seidhe enjoyed originated in the knowledge of the Elder Races. Everything new was only the well-forgotten old; while the old had never ceased to exist. It had just twisted a little to fit with the times. And the times required decisive actions. Man owed the elves tribute: for the lives he took and continued to take. And men would pay, as if to their vengeful gods. There were stories of that too, in other spheres, other times and places.

Everything new was only the well-forgotten old.

The wheel never broke, as his friend put it; it had not broken when they had lost their home, it had not shattered when they lost _Aen Hen Ichaer_ , it had not snapped when the unicorns had turned on them. They were already too tightly interwoven into the fabric of the universe. Therefore, now, more than ever, it was their duty to ensure they continued to ride the serpent’s head, no matter the cost. When the unwavering mechanism of Fate quivered against all expectations, more concrete measures were needed to steer its course. Eternity was achieved through a baptism by fire.

_And you, kitten, will exchange a midsummer’s dream for a brief bout as a lab rat._

Music rang under the arcades, lively as courting swifts. He pulled her after him, politely ignoring familiar faces until he found someplace empty and quiet. To his delight, he caught a spark of something in her eyes when he closed the door; something other than vacant doldrums. Had that romantic imagination awoken, perhaps?

Eredin could hide her in here; put her inside that chest, for instance, and tell her to stay there until the morning. Bribe someone. Have another _dh’oine_ take the red-head’s place. Take her on as a servant in his household. She would have to be grateful to him then.

Alas, he had already heard a tale like this once before, and it bored him. Therefore, instead of doing anything romantic, the dark-haired elf gently pressed her against the wall.

\---//---

Nestled in the embrace of ivy and hydrangea cascades, overlooking the Easnadh river far below, sat a shaded balcony. The murmur of fine waterfalls which passed through the fey palace, etched into the craggy mountain side, could be heard only faintly here. The water whispered, suggested, made promises, and invigorated minds that were about to journey between the plane of dreams and the world that had been fished out of them. It cleansed the thought of daily routines and the mundane and guided you onto the forking paths of Infinity’s endless possibilities. For this reason, she favoured this wing of the palace, and for this reason too, he came to her, whenever she wished for him, and listened with her. On that balcony, in each other’s arms, stood a man and a woman whose stillness and quiet elegance made them blend seamlessly into the world that stretched out around and within them. A world they had begun dreaming together.

The world’s connection to its inhabitants mirrored their rulers’ connection to the land. It was not, perhaps, correct in the strictest sense to say that the land “depended” upon this connection. Yet, the claim, nor its reverse, was not wrong either. They affected each other. The fabric of being was supple – the elves were of it and it became of them. Therefore, one had to wonder, what would happen to their realm if its sworn guardian wavered. What if rot set in at the head? The male, whose extraordinary eyes shone in starlight like molten lead, swayed and she swayed gently along with him. Like so many a night in the past.

Except… one of them was still real, and the other was no longer.

As his heart – his very being – lacked for a half, so too did the world of elves. An important element was missing. The fabric utterly and irrevocably twisted, the scales out of balance. There was only this… memory. And memory too had begun to waver.

Wind wove their hair, ashen and silvery white, together, and though its touch was still delicate as silk against his face, its smell had changed: it had become very ordinary and frighteningly worldly, and wrong. All wrong. Not at all of his Shiadhal. His soul, his love, his life. It could not have been hers, for he could not have misremembered her. Never. Yet the magic broke all the same, the illusion flickered, and the elven-king already knew what would come next. He almost closed his eyes when she turned in his arms, for he could not bear witness to this disintegrating memory, looking at him peacefully through eyes that belonged to not one but two beings he had held dearer than life. Drop by drop, they had slipped away from him, pulling his life after them, and, drop by drop, he sent it after them, hoping there would soon be nothing left to give away. One is the only one, and is so forever. Auberon almost closed his eyes, though in reality he did not, and never could do so. For he would not let his ailing memory spare his soul. Indeed, he secretly knew that whatever else he gradually surrendered to time, the eyes of Shiadhal would have remained in spite of him. His soul became ashes each time he sought out their memory.

The illusion dissipated. He could hear the steady hum of waterfalls in the gloaming.

A memory in the making was the present moment embracing itself with the infinite possibilities of the future. It bound time and created a sphere in which consciousness could make sense of its own presence. Its existence was desirable, but its total absence was truly no great loss, because nothing ever begun and nothing ever ended. Nothing suffered. Problems arose only when the memory of the world began to alter itself, eventually beyond recognition. That made you lose faith in... reality.

Auberon poured himself wine and lay down on a recliner.

The absolute and final loss could not terrify him anymore. What did was the transformation of a dear thing into another, untrue one. Time within the mind had begun to run strangely once the shackles of time without had been dealt with. With the ebb and rise of his desire and grief, the residue of chemicals left behind no longer resembled the original, authentic mix he had experienced when things of great importance had taken place in his life. Where he should have tasted crystal-like clarity, he mouthed hot wind. Where he once rode the light, he now grasped after the murky glow of will-o'-wisps. He was certain he had allowed the Plan to change its shape, in some part he cared less about already. In conclusion then, the rot had begun to set in. And it had been going on for a while.

Perhaps it would have been better to lose hold of the dream completely and to set oneself adrift in the waters of forgetfulness; hand the reins over to the youth. But that possibility was in equal measures tempting and forbidden to the Elle. Because he was unsure of the outcome, for starters, and because the fabric of magic that bound the integrity of this land to him had already begun to untwine. Reports of magical anomalies, instabilities, and plain oddness did not cease even within the recesses of his own head, not to speak of Ge’els’ diligent account-taking of the state of the realm. He knew the blueprints of his own work, but no one else did. How could he preserve this realm while it waited, if what he dreamt was but the warped copy of the truth?

The elf picked up the silver-laid looking glass carefully with both hands and lifted it between himself and the vista, examining his own reflection. What was to become of the face of this world if it could no longer recognise itself? If it thrashed about madly in its own loss eternally, unable to be reborn and unable to die?

Meanwhile, the youth… the “youth” kept playing – for higher and higher stakes, until one day, they would again be playing for the fate of the world. As their people had done in time out of mind. As his own daughter, on whose fragile wings had rested such a heavy burden, had done. She had stepped into the fray and made an impossible bet. And she had lost.

There was no escaping from this perversion, this decay, it seemed.

He blew on the cold surface of the mirror, filling it with soft, grey fog. He knew that once dreams began showing signs of corruption, so too would the gift of foresight, which guided the weaving of the fabric of their being. The Alder King dreaded the loss of his vision, and with it, the loss of his connection to the reality from which their immortality had once been summoned. He was afraid that he could no longer see beyond the loss. And now, he could no longer even ascertain the finality of this fate. Soon, he would be unable to discern the veracity of his own memories even. How very pathetic for Auberon Muircetach, the White Mariner, to lose the plot like this!

Fortunately, not all was lost.

There were ways to combat neural degeneration and even slow down the magical ripple-effects this process generated, to preserve what needed preserving until the wheel of Destiny turned. Despite never having specialised in restorative magic and medicine, he was not unaware of the lengths to which these methods could go – right up to turning a prime medium into a vegetable in order to preserve its source pool until the connections that tied it to the magical underpinnings of their realm’s reality could be stabilised, severed, and transferred. Naturally, they were still far from requiring such extreme measures, yet it still seemed to him at times that the Knowing Ones were ever so eager to have him try out some of the more novel approaches that had been developed over the last century or so. He could not get angry at their displays of enthusiasm, of course, but Auberon was far from decrepit. He preferred to approach his problems in his own way.

Starting with the driving force behind the zeal of his accomplished, over-eager sorcerers and sorceresses.

He had sensed Crevan approach long before he saw him stepping out of the great tapestry that hung indoors, on a wall opposite the covert balcony. Wiping off the rest of the mirror, inside of which you could glance, or simply witness for your own entertainment, the past, present, and the future, Auberon poured the wine – for two. One of the gentlest ways to fend off mindrot was to share the burden of verification; find and fix the inconsistencies that could lead to the occurrence of rifts and paradoxes. Sceptics, he had heard, called it derisively “the talking cure.” He did not really mind; it had been a while since they had had the opportunity to sit down like this. The youth, as he had already accepted, were always so thoroughly immersed in their games that they rarely took the time to note what became of them in the middle of it. Perhaps he was feeling a little sentimental tonight; it was Auberon’s intention to ensure that what Crevan was going to help him with would also end up tending the Sage’s soul a little.

Perhaps.

Nothing that was not supposed to happen ever happened, after all.

For now though, they would talk, drink, and break through this terrible night of endless waiting, and eventually, with a little bit of luck, they would see how this story would turn out, wouldn’t they? He smiled for the first time during that clear summer evening, a little sadly but still, and gestured for the fair-haired elf with aquamarine eyes to take a seat and make himself comfortable in the Alder King’s garden of illusions.

Crystal glasses clinked.

‘Shall we begin?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This started out as a theoretical response to a number of plotholes, underdeveloped plotlines, vague worldbuilding, and missing continuity elements between Andrzej Sapkowski's wonderful Witcher saga and CDPR's Witcher games. In particular, as concerns the _**elves**_ of this fictional universe, and its "space elves" specifically. With the influx of time that 2020 has provided, it turned into a piece of fanfiction that I am sharing with you today. It is still a work in progress, but I have a good general idea of where I would like to go with it, and it spans across both the books and the games. It is also relatively slow, since there are many aspects about their lore that I find interesting. 
> 
> In short: it's about the elves. 
> 
> It begins with worldbuilding & the Aen Elle. It will, afterwards, concern Ciri's journey & escape from the Wild Hunt, as well as her relationship with Avallac'h, Eredin, and her unwanted legacy. And it will definitely not be a quick fix, I'm afraid to say. 
> 
> I am glad if it manages to bring something interesting to the table and offer enjoyment, but above all, I am glad to get it out of my system.
> 
> Thank you for reading; let me know what you think!  
> Discussion & constructive criticism is always welcomed.  
> 
> 
> Mythology:  
>  **Cnoc Áine** \- According to Celtic tradition, this is the sacred hill of the goddess Áine and her place of power.  
>  **Áine** – Irish goddess of summer, wealth, love, sovereignty, and fertility, who also has command over crops and animals, thus also being associated with agriculture, midsummer, and the sun.  
>  **Aulom** – semi-mythological King of Munster, who is said to have forced himself upon Áine in a half-sleep vision he witnessed at Cnoc Áine, having ventured there on the suggestion of a druid in order to fend off drought & starvation that plagued his land. Áine bit off his ear, rendering him unfit to rule.  
>  **Midsummer’s Eve** – A pagan festival that was celebrated in most of central and northern Europe, and is still an important traditional holiday in north-east Europe today. Also, a time when the barrier between the mythical/otherworldly and earthly/worldly sphere is thin.  
>  **Search for Fern Flowers** – Ferns don’t bloom, but the tradition is still for couples or “about to be” couples to go looking for the fern flower on Midsummer’s Eve, because it brings earthly fortune to the person who finds it. It is guarded by evil spirits though, so the risk of picking it up is left to the individual. Sometimes it is just not worth it.  
>  **Dolmens/Cromlechs** – commonly thought to be entryways to the Otherworld in Celtic mythology. Dot the landscape in the world of the Aen Elle and generally, everywhere, where elves can be found.  
>  **Sealing or Unsealing** \- Seelie or Unseelie. Wordplay, but is it only?  
>  **Little People** – ‘elves’, or Tuatha Dé Danann/The Tylwyth Teg.  
>  **Dancing with the elves** – dangerous business; rarely ends well.  
>  **Realm's health tied to its ruler's** \- Fisher King analogy.
> 
> Language:  
>  _Weddin_ – child in Elder Speech.  
>  _Squaess'me_ – “forgive me” in Elder Speech.  
>  _Feainnewedd_ – child of the sun in Elder Speech.  
>  _elle_ – Aen Elle in general.  
>  _Elle_ – the King of the Aen Elle.  
>  _Archimago_ \- from Spencer’s _Fairy Queen_. The name is an amalgation of the Latin words arch (first) and imago. While "imago" is the root word of the modern English "image", it was originally used to describe the final form of an object, such as a ghost, echo, or fully formed idea. Thus _archimago_ translates as "the first and final form", a variation of Alpha and Omega.
> 
> If and when I do focus on sex, violence, torture, or other unsavory elements, I will make use of them liberally in the service of the plot. Rating changes.
> 
> PS! Special thanks to Lami (https://lamie-lad.tumblr.com/) for her wonderful theorising and for putting up with my own rambles.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sylphlike snowflakes rained on his retina, as if in the dead of winter. It did not freeze him. It was not the bone-crunching cold of that hilltop. It was warm. It was light, and everything around him was brimming with life. He shuddered, all the same. Soft mist wrapped around her shoulders, hugging the four uneven and ugly stumps of her hand. Frozen, dead, gone… why had she chosen this?_  
> 
> 
> _‘You’re ill, Crevan,’ the woman’s hands dropped to her sides. ‘Do you realise?’_

_Nothing. Nothing more. Nothing at all._

Her footsteps fall on pure white canvas like the coming of fate, trailed, as she is, by a thin, winding path of blood. Ice clings to her maimed fingers, four uneven and ugly stumps, but where droplets of her blood have fallen, white flowers begin to bloom on permafrost.

Step by step, she trudges through snow and gale under bare alder trees and silent stars. If the fire that has been suckling on her spine breaks her now, if she bursts with the pain that she has carried under her breast for nine long months, then she will bleed out alone and the trees will look on in silence as she brings her pain into this world.

There is nothing dearer to her than this pain.

Snow falls from treetops and tears from her eyes. She passes through arches of darkness that cling to her like smoke, whispering, sighing, keening. She has already seen what’s behind that last door. It waits, patiently, as the child moves within her. Feeling for its _pneuma_ is all the magic she can allow herself with murderers and the world that eats its children on her tail. Their child is in no danger. This is all. Nothing more matters. Nothing at all.

She falls on black ice, barely able to turn her side forward, and does not get up again.

It is cold. Very cold. Snow falls from treetops above her, freezing her bit by bit. She covers her protruding belly with her hands and cries. There is still the two of them. There had been three. And soon, there will again be only one. Alone. Fey light flashes in-between the arches of stars. The voices beyond the door whisper and her striking green eyes flash with recognition. Hope. Fear.

It would be so simple to call out to them now. Her pursuers could do nothing against the emissaries of her father, they would find nothing at all but the laughter of the alders on this snowy hill. And she would see home again. Her mother and father. The child kicks again, and Lara groans. The warmth of life in her has melted some of the ice around her mangled hand and a crimson flower blooms where she has cradled her stomach. Defiled blood. A changeling child that nobody wants. At home, they will take her pain and her love from her, and pretend nothing ever was. Nothing more than had been intended. Nothing at all.

Her inimitable eyes, sparkling with tears, harden one last time.

_No._

\---//---

_‘A certain quasi-religious belief has taken hold in a number of spheres, where the “family unit” of predominantly non-magical cultures has come under threat. That belief is one of Changeling Children.  
  
Supernatural forces are thought to leave Changelings in place of normal offspring, be it out of love, malice, or need for labourers. Concurrently, the Changeling is inferior to a normal offspring in every way. They may display the characteristics and proclivities of their origins, but this makes them a burden for their family, altogether ill-suited for society at large. Upon a closer look, the belief in Changeling Children seems little more than a manifestation of societal anxiety over the erosion of productivity during times of great upheaval and change. An ill, unruly, or disabled member of the family is a drain of resources in cultures that found their development and progress on the large-scale practice of agriculture. Expeditions to said spheres have proven that tales of Changelings are often used as pretext for supporting infanticide in species where the ease of procreation far outweighs the harm of loss of life. _

_Several attempts were made under the leadership of the Circle of Nibel and Aen Saevherne Héloïse aep Cailleach to study and, where beneficial, ingrain this belief in the collective consciousness of cultures closely derivative of each other. Since evolved humanoids have proven most susceptible, the experiment was recently re-adjusted for the strain of dh’oine in Sidhe and was taken up by Aen Saevherne Lara aep Shiadhal._

_Based on records from previous Cycles, this belief has taken reified form in a third of recorded cases: the supernatural entities are the original inhabitants of the land who have been driven into hiding by an invading species, and who consequently exchange their sickly offspring for the healthy children of the invaders, thus attempting to subvert the nature-nurture dichotomy.'_

_\- Mathurin aep Torquilin’s_ letters _,  
_ collected in _The Red Book of Narratives,_ Vol _._ 7 _;  
_ discontinued

\---//---

‘Will someone, please, get me _Solutio Viridis Nitentis Spirituosa!_ And bandages!’

The day was precisely warm enough for the small gathering that was taking place in the cool wine cellar underneath one of Tir ná Lia’s innumerable villas. Wine revealed the truth. That much made sense for the four elves. The rest… not so much.

‘What colour is it?’ a female elf in elegantly crocheted half cloak was the first to tear herself out of the surprise that had fallen upon all of them.

‘Brilliant green. No! Not that one. That one’s for expelling ants.’

‘Does it really make a difference?’ a third, male voice pitched in sardonically.

‘Oh dear, it’s scratching them bloody! I can’t leave it like this; this isn’t right. Why do you scratch yourself, _weddin_ , it is not decent! Stripes don’t go with circles!’

‘Could you go check on the horses, dear?’ the calm and resolute voice, who had made the request for bandages and antiseptic, addressed the male.

‘For bandages and Brilliant Green?’

‘No, for our peace of mind. This is not a scene for an erudite philosopher such as yourself.’

The door to the cellar shut.

‘Do you think it drank some of the wine? It has a great taste, I must say.’

‘It’s a seven-year old; it drinks juice and honeyed water, not wine.’

‘Still, an excellent taste!’

‘I don’t understand how this could have even happened,’ a third woman, who’d so far remained silent, now piped up over the heads of the other two, examining the scene of the crime. ‘I did not even know we had these little brownies in the staff – I thought keeping them around the house was outlawed nearly two centuries ago!’

‘Help me with this, will you; take those sticks and… oh, let’s just put her on the steps for now.’

‘Hush-hush, don’t cry so loudly. Let us sing instead! You know how to sing, yes, little one?’

‘Calm it, yes. Very good! It lets me check its joints.’

The inexplicable suddenly dawned on the elf, whose contribution to handling the situation had so far consisted in casual knowledge of the history of human resource law.

‘Was it magic!?’

‘Of course it was magic,’ the woman in the crocheted cloak, tasked with calming the fledgling, got fully into character in her sing-song voice. ‘Children are magic. _They do such funny things, and they do not even know_ –’

‘No-no, you don’t understand Mairé, it can’t use it.’

‘– _that a bee can sting, and up we never grow_. That’s right, that’s better. No need to cry. We’re only here to help. And why wouldn’t it be able to use it?’

‘It’s… well, it’s just unable, isn’t it?’

‘Trust me, this one is able,’ the first woman, who seemed to be the only one aware of the urgency of healing, asserted under her breath.

‘None of you has had children of your own yet, clearly, but I would have thought they taught you to distinguish between ordinary children and sources at the Academy.

If it talks back, argues, runs around very fast, shouts or laughs very loudly for the sake of it, and has the untameable urge to stick its nose, or tongue, where it doesn’t belong – it’s a child. If it skips around _and_ levitates the cat _and_ breaks out in hives when it’s emotional – it’s probably a source. Or a demon. Or something that should be dealt with carefully, post-haste.’

‘Yes, but THEY _._ Cannot _._ Do _._ That! _’_

‘Good Dana, grant me patience. And bandages! And Brilliant Green – please! Can someone finally set some priorities –’

The door to the cellar opened again. Word had spread.

‘Ah! What is that!? What an adorable little thing! So cute!’

‘Oh, it is, isn’t it? Brought the entire wine shelf down this morning. There-there, no more tears. We found it passed out in a pool of Malbre Tisé with these little stick figurines all around it. But it appeared all pustuly and sad, so we thought it better to call for help.’

‘What instincts it has! And look at its little nose! It’s like a blueberry.’

‘That’s a pustule, I’m afraid. Though its nose is very little otherwise; almost elegant, like a minuscule chanterelle. So very unlike its mother’s; I wish it would stay that way.’

‘I hope it doesn’t have to be exorcised.’

‘It’s only a child, not a demon.’

‘Yes, but this one is unnatural…’

‘Dames, could we please –’

‘Who is its father, I wonder. It caused all this, but I can see those round boletuses it has for its ears and, I mean –’

‘Oh, who cares; it is much more interesting than its mother or father! I wonder what it could do if we just –’

‘Ladies, could we please put the child down. It is not magic, it is not a mushroom, and it is not a tiny sommelier. It is a child. And it needs bandages and _Solutio Viridis Nitentis Spirituosa,_ and sober minds. Now!’

\---//---

The pendulum swung.

Slowly and formulaically, it paced the path fixed for it atop refraction glass, off which reflected all the spectrum an elven eye could detect in the late morning sun of Lammas. Calmly, with peace and understanding for its great purpose; unerringly. It was truly beautiful.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

Back and…

‘It appears,’ the lilt of Auberon’s voice reached him from somewhere between the rhododendron bushes, ‘that something is eating away at you today.’

A pair of unusual aquamarine eyes gradually focused on the _Elle,_ across a pond that sprung naturally in the centre of the green-enmeshed conservatory. It was very warm here, and neither of the elves wore much beyond tapered linen shirts on light breeches, adorned with colourful scarves around the waist.

Crevan leaned back in the hammock. ‘I have never felt better.’

And buried his face in his hands.

‘No-no-no,’ the calm voice continued, still almost entirely preoccupied with the flowerbed before which lazed two white jaguars; specially bred for their intelligence and protective nature. ‘Please, do not treat me as if I did not know you.’

A curt, rueful nod in the depths of the hammock.

‘You have been unusually subdued and transparent this entire morning. What's more, you are yet to fly off to… oh, whatever it is you do these days that is so perennially important. I am almost starting to think we may have accidentally switched forms.’

‘I am relieved to hear your Eminence is feeling better today.’

‘Oh, perhaps prettier, if not significantly better. Because you, Crevan, as I have already determined, are not too well yourself.’

Not without reason was it said that Aen Saevherne made for the worst patients for any healer, but especially for other Sages. It was a little like being forced to digest the poison you had been called to expunge.

Back and forth, the pendulum swung.

‘If trouble had never graced paradise,’ he muttered half-heartedly, ‘not a single soul would have believed in it. Nor heard of it.’

No audible acknowledgment. ‘Have you had a vision, perchance?’

‘No. Nothing that matters.’

‘A dream?’

Crevan hesitated, letting the light reflecting off the glass of the conservatory blind him until sylphlike snowflakes rained on his retina, as if in the dead of winter. It did not freeze him. It was not the bone-crunching cold of that hilltop. It was warm. It was light, and everything around him was brimming with life. He shuddered, all the same.

‘A dream.’

‘That dream?’

Auberon finally tore himself away from what had captivated him among the rhododendrons. Several aphids clung to and jumped off his rolled-up sleeves as he made his way over. The jaguars followed close behind.

They sat for a while, in silence, contemplating the water striders on the surface of the shimmering pond. There was little to say that had not already been said.

‘How fortunate you are, to hear so clearly still the painful music with which the heart guides its children.’

The pendulum swung back, but not forth again – stopping at its highest point and remaining there for what felt like an eternity. Its purpose lost, its elegant truth aborted. For a brief moment, the music of Crevan’s heart shone with unbearable brightness in his huge, almond eyes, and then fizzled out completely. Avallac’h tapped his fingers on the table surface, glaring at the _Elle_.

‘Our dreams are like this beautiful toy here,’ Auberon gently took an azure rectangle in his hand from among the trinkets and memorabilia scattered on the table. ‘Don’t you think? What we have put in here, we will hear over and over and over again. Until we fall asleep. I sleep, Crevan – every day. There is nothing new I want to learn; nothing truly changes anymore. My heart, you could say, has become like this beautiful box here. Nothing but what is already sealed inside it will awaken.’

He lay his long fingers over the other elf’s chest. ‘You should not be like me.’

‘I will remember this,’ Avallac’h promised softly, resolving, at the same time, to reconsider some of his suggestions to the _Elle’s_ personal physician, who charted Auberon’s medications.

The Alder King smiled vacantly, his striking gaze drifting off beyond the boundaries of the conservatory as his mood and bearing darkened, as they always did. How could the blind guide the deaf?

‘Fate never errs. Never. I resented the thought once, same as you. Deeply and heartily. For how could I not – I have lost unimaginably more than you. And yet, I think I understand the consolation a wise being must find in the mechanism’s unerring ways. If something ends, something must also – always! – begin.’

‘Your wisdom and humility do you credit, O _Elle_ ,’ Avallac’h heaved himself out of the hammock. He had heard enough. ‘I’m afraid, however, that I must leave you for now. It is as you say: something eats at me today. I can see no better way to get in communion with its reasons than to ensure that what must begin, begins.’

‘Do you think it is down to you?’ Auberon snapped suddenly. ‘Perhaps a lot of it, if fate wills it. But not in the way you think.’

Avallac’h did not reply. He pulled on his long boots and breathed in, deeply. It did smell wonderful in Auberon’s botanic garden. However, it did not entirely drive away the stench of fragile, impotent consolations that masked themselves in the wisdom of the maimed. He felt deeply ashamed of his anger in moments like these. It was true: the Alder King had lost unimaginably more than him. And Avallac’h did not know anyone who had lost that much and did not fear fate.

‘Do you recall that Belleteyn, Crevan?’ he continued serenely once more. ‘The one where my darling Lara and you…’

The pendulum gave a slight twitch and returned to its resting state – completely still.

‘Will you lend me your help in remembering it as it was? Will you enter this cycle with me? I feel like this could be a good thing today, to balance the scales.’

He declined the offer; it was a personal request. The probability that anything about Auberon’s ailing memory could threaten the already tangled and nightmarish fabric of the story of the birth and rebirth of the people of the Alders was not very high. He suspected Auberon willed the occasions when they strayed from correcting the continuity of their narrative’s ontology, onto matters concerning Crevan personally. Today, he was simply surprised by his leader's sadism.

_Belleteyn._

That drop of living feeling, that the Alder King craved to retain for its own sake, paced a fixed path in Crevan’s heart slowly and unerringly.

Back and forth.

Always.

\---//---

Wind chimes ring in treetops.

It is Belleteyn.

It is the night when they will begin anew.

Soft music steers the steps of elves in a joyfully decorated garden – their first in this new world – at the forest-end of a meadow of a hundred brooks, where magical fireflies and many shining spheres entangle themselves in the crowns of spring’s most beloved heralds – bird cherries, hawthorns, and blooming apple trees. Evening breeze, which carries the sweet smell of apple blossoms, forsythias, and the sting of fires, drives ragged wisps of mist across the meadow; and within it, far away at the other end where the streams subside into a lake, graze the unicorns.

He has been playing his flute for the elves, for the Belleteyn King and Queen, until they pull him into the spiral of twirling silhouettes on the young grass. Soon enough, one familiar silhouette flashes in the corner of Crevan’s eye.

‘You again!’

To be approached like this; slyly, under everyone’s noses! Restraining the pleasant wave of warmth that pools in his stomach as the tips of her hair brush his chin, he laces their fingers together and eases into familiar steps.

‘Me.’ Hawthorn and primrose adorn her long hair, ash in white gold. ‘You are not surprised, are you?’

They circle one another, stepping apart, passing each other by to switch places; not once losing hold, as the dance demands. He would like to say he did not expect her, but that is not really true. He always knows when she is near: when they work together, when he tries to learn her. Yet, he relishes the sensation as if it was the unlikeliest of surprises – for that is how he feels. Her presence sets her apart from all others; especially tonight. On the night of life’s rebirth.

 _I never know_ , he thinks, keeping the wayward flames of Belleteyn fires at bay around her heels as they pass, _if she would like to surprise me or not._

‘Ah, he doesn’t know everything after all. He has deceived me! Feigning surprise to my face; because he is polite, patient, dependable - still, that is not very nice.’

He smiles softly.

‘I do not see how I could feign anything around you.’

Changeable as the ocean’s breeze. Free and uncaring of obstacles. In the dance of the most beloved daughter of the _elle,_ everyone can see the grace of venture and return. Sometimes near, sometimes far, Lara soars to the call of the ocean of time, through worlds, yet always finds her way back home. Her partner’s is a different brand: clever and measured, vainglorious in its fun and strength, but in the end, steady and familial as time everlasting. Much relies on their understanding of one another.

‘I should be surprised, you know?’ she slides her hand on top of his, gripping his wrist lightly, as if trying for something, testing. Can she feel it? He moves around her, brushing the small of her back. ‘They tell me so many wonderful things about you – my father’s famous, trusted subordinate. As if I could not look it all up in tomes and songs. As if they were afraid I would.’

‘You make me sound strange.’

‘Aren’t you? A little strange.’

 _Anything you like_ , the sorcerer thinks.

She reads his thoughts and desire effortlessly tonight, just as he reads the movements of her body, the fire of her spirit; and there is the silver of her laughter! This is wine; this is the aroma of flowering trees; this is the wind chimes in the awakening forest; this is the crowd of elves, heated with wine and dancing and the music of their hearts. This is Belleteyn.

‘But they could not tell me about the most important things. For example, despite the many talents of my intended, I may still have to be prepared for disappointment when I dance with him.’

He feels the tips of his ears warm. ‘And why would that be?’

Lara does not answer; Lara likes to leave him guessing. During the next switch, he squeezes her hand a little tighter than customary, tracing the life line inside her palm with his thumb. They come to stop as the music pauses, looking at each other. He should not be so forward with her, so raw, he thinks, but still pulls her past him a little quicker next, so the smell of apple blossoms and drizzle is left in her wake. The spring of her step sends her into a spin and between long, braided hair of silvering gold, the emerald of her eyes flashes; a little scandalised but also a little pleased.

‘For what is most important – I knew I had to see for myself.’

Belleteyn consumes him whole.

The music ends.

They talk and circle among others. They listen and make their wishes, giving praise to the Goddess and to the infallibility of creation. They throw sprigs off their chosen trees into Belleteyn fires and feed each other white honey. Until Lara takes him by the hand and pulls him after her.

Past the dancing couples, around the brightly shouting fires, she whisks them both away from the eyes and expectations of the elders, over the first star-lit streams that border the domain of tonight’s celebrations. Into a field where dew has fallen on long grass, drenching the flowing dress around her slender knees and soaking his long legs; she unwraps the colourful belt from around her waist and holds out her hand to him. Crevan, breathless, his head swimming with the sweet smell of flowers in her hair and honey on his tongue, looks at her askance, then places his hand, palm upwards, around hers. _Anything for you_. Lara smiles at his thoughts, takes the soft belt in her other hand and places one of its ends in her palm where his fingers thread through hers and grasp the stub. She thinks about something, a shadow of excitement passing over her delicate features, and her smile broadens, her green eyes inviting his surrender as his heart beats faster. Silently, under the far-off gaze of grazing unicorns, she begins wrapping the fabric around their forearms in a figure of eight with practiced moves, but hesitant and slow, since she works alone.

‘I thought you would want to wait for our…’

‘Why wait? You are here and so am I. I am to be yours and you are to be mine. Or do you intend to disappear somewhere and leave me?’

‘Never.’

He takes the end of the belt from her, barely able to contain the heated euphoria that rises to his throat, and helps her complete the handfast. It is informal, he knows, and they will have to complete the ritual in full again, but what does it matter, if this is what she wants? Perhaps a touch of magic just to make sure… Lara shivers, the shawl slipping from her shoulders, and clasps at his fingers, her heartbeat pulsating under his skin. And he is certain now she can feel the trembling and want and _fear_ her assent puts in him.

‘So this is what you’re like!’

That honeyed laughter on Lara’s lips is the last thing Crevan hears and the first thing he tastes when he draws her lips against his, the colourful fabric of fate unrolling between them like a dragonfly in ancient skies.

\---//---

What a quaint invention that big clock was!

The relic had been erected at the end of a boulevard of white willow trees that blew softly in the hot wind. It was all the weirder, in her opinion, for its place of prominence underneath the shadow of Myr. Wasn’t time a magic trick; a well-known and boring one? It could be interesting, of course, when used to create urgency within a small, well-defined space, such as story put on stage, but to let a machine simply count the grains in the illusion... Fortunately, there were many, much more useful tricks in the employ of the inhabitants of Myr. Or so she had heard.

‘Can I offer you some?’

Drawn out of her reverie, Isilira Étain Bébhinne, an experienced bon vivant as well, as the youngest daughter of the First Magistrate of Tir ná Lia, Madame Periwinkle to her inner circle, unfolded her twinkling blue fan and sent the blonde male a long, agonizing look. But quickly corrected course; while her reluctance to accept the rosé offered may have been only for show, she remembered that Aen Saevherne tended to take answers verbatim, depending on the mood they were in at the time. As concerned her host, she remained tentative on the account of his mood.

‘My dear brother told me I would be meeting a colleague of yours today,’ she said, sipping the cool wine and passing the fan lazily over her face. A shield, and a sword, should she need it to be.

‘Alas, you got me. You are not too disappointed, I hope?’

‘Of course not. It’s been weeks since I pestered him; since the incident at ours. He must have simply forgotten to bring me up to date.’ Her brother never forgot anything. ‘I merely worry I may have torn you away from something more important. My matter is a touch… below you.’

‘Not at all.’

Isilira took note of the dried brown spots on the rolled-up sleeve of the Sage’s powder-pale shirt, contrasting starkly with his clean, well-groomed hands. It made her uneasy how little care he had for his presentation before her. It was obvious at once that this change had been made at last minute, and not by his colleague Sinath aep Ingelram. Oh, she hated this! She had demanded confidentiality before allowing her brother to talk her into this, but this was not what she had been promised. It was already beginning to reek of scandal, of deals she could do without. She should have just had the little rat drowned. But she knew she didn’t have the heart. Who drowns the beginning of something new and exciting? And who demeans herself by getting so upset as to lose decorum?

Besides, there could be its own advantages to getting to know this elf a little closer, no?

‘I am glad, in fact, that your matter ended up with me.’

‘You took a look at her instead of your colleague, I take it.’

He nodded, crossing his fingers before his lips; observing. Thinking.

Eredin always said he could feel it when Crevan made him the object of his thoughts because of the overflowing curiosity that accompanied the probing against his mind. But Eredin had been trained to detect and fend off intrusions, in addition to the protective enchantments he wore.

She decided to press on regardless. ‘I was told they were perfectly safe! We allow them into our homes, into our kitchens and bedrooms –’

‘– and parties and among all our treasures. You have hit the problem on its proverbial head, my Lady. Exceedingly many problems begin in bedrooms. Including yours.’

Isilira glared; he looked on, amused.

‘The girl exhibits latent receptivity to magic. A fledgling, crass talent, if you will.’

‘I don’t understand,’ she muttered; with admirable incredulity. ‘How can this be? They should be barren as bricks, no? What you suggest is against nature.’

Emptying her glass, she set it down on the marble table top with a clank, flashing him a look of concern while calling upon the anxiety she felt over the potential embarrassment of it all if word got out, to lend her movements gravitas. She was beginning to feel pleased with her performance. Thus, when his short laughter rang underneath the wild apple tree which grew, quite unnaturally, out of a patch of earth drawn for it within the barren rock of Myr’s magical, colourful edifice, it dissipated the feeling of success somewhat. But the script had been written and she would see it through. What a shame he chose not to appreciate it; she decided she rather liked his laughter otherwise.

‘Were it so, much would be different. Your problem is not very interesting, nor novel, you see,’ he drawled at last, snatching a sweet from a raised crystal bowl. ‘Though, I do adore how delightfully taken aback you all are after the repercussions of violating some simple rules become evident.

‘They are not to inter-breed, my good Lady. Some of the _Dh’oine_ in the world of our cousins have, over time, come to manifest magical abilities. Then again, knowing the size of your household, I suppose it was only a matter of time.’

'A size that entirely justifies itself, you would discover, if you were inclined to come over some time.'

'Perhaps I will.'

_Only a matter of time._

‘This is how the girl came to be, isn't it?’ he added after a moment.

‘If you say so.’

‘You do not know?’

‘To keep an eye on all of their fancies and proclivities – what life would that be?’

‘It is mandated. I’m sure your venerable father or if not then most definitely your brother–’

‘Oh, of course they harry me with it. Of course! And I know. What I am trying to say is that if the machine is fool-proof, some minor oversights should not make a difference.’

His eyes sparkled, but she observed with relief he was not going to push the issue. Instead, he reached for another crystallised sweet. Setting her foldable fan aside, she reached for his well-groomed, spotless hand in a gesture of surrender; or rather, a change of strategy. The Sage eyed her very closely.

Isilira sighed. ‘I know, but what life would it be? You must understand me, surely? Though you are right, of course, I admit. I may have been…lax. But asking for help is not beneath me. What can be done with her? Understand please that I would not want them to confiscate her. I would rather not to lose her just because of some silly mix-up. She is, all in all, a very nice girl. Just -’

‘I can smother it.’ He got up suddenly and crossed the balcony in a hurry to reach out his hand just as an apple fell down – right onto his outstretched palm. ‘I can deprive the girl of the latent potential.’

‘Can you? Can this… well, is it safe?’

‘It is unlikely to do any unwanted damage. This sprout of magic in the _dh’oin_ e is very much like a tumour; it does not really belong there, and it can cause plenty of damage. Indeed, some of them, who have the means to, refuse it voluntarily.’

‘In _Sidhe_?’

‘For example. Magic is not inherent to them; not to mention control. Therefore, it deforms them, hurts them and, inevitably, harms those around them. Many cannot afford to lose out on their investment in their offspring, however, since while they are numerous, most tend to be of poorly constitution, sickly, and ill-fed.’

Starlings were gathering in the far-off sky, letting the afternoon wind carry their murmuration above the eternal tides of Easnadh.

‘Therefore many seek to get rid of the spark, or nature will take its course and get rid of their children for them,’ he followed the murmuration’s movement for a while, placing the apple before her on the small round table behind which they sat. ‘Either way, it is already happening. In _Sidhe_.’

‘What is?’

‘The waning of their connection to Power. Everything will return to normal. It is only a matter of time.’

'Gosh, I truly hope so.'

‘For the time being though,’ he continued lightly after a while, drawing his gaze from across the city to focus back on Isilira, ‘I can close this matter within her. My intervention, however, will do nothing at all toward weeding out the cause of your problems in the long run. You will appreciate that the girl must also be sterilized.’

That caught her off guard; she had not prepared.

‘Sterilize? Is that really necessary?’

The Sage glared at her.

‘She is a nice girl. For a _dh’oine_ ,’ she improvised. ‘Her features, her hair – I was rather hoping on her offspring. It is so rare, you understand, to find ones that both look and play nice. Well, relatively.’

‘I am happy to volunteer my help and discretion to you, Madame, but I am sure you realise that your current arrangement cannot continue forever. We do not leave loose ends.’

She weighed his words, weighed her disappointment and the strange sense of unease his calmness over these matters instilled in her as a woman, but, begrudgingly, had to agree. Why eliminate if you can shush? They lived such short lives anyway.

‘For the machine to remain fool-proof?’

He smiled kindly. ‘You can leave her with me today.’

That concluded it then. Isilira would get what she had come for – answers to some of her questions and a salve to soothe her worries. Harbouring a small troublemaker – a child of a slave, no less, who behaved entirely inappropriately – among her staff would threaten unwanted questions and accusations of shaming her house’s good name. The girl would be kept out of sight for a few years and everything would quickly return to normal. Isilira would not have to sell anyone, nor drive a mother and child apart with tears and heartache which would interfere with the good cheer she liked to foster around her home. Such measures were altogether unnecessary and tasteless in her opinion. Especially if it was possible to just make the problem disappear.

‘There is one matter, though.’

She froze briefly amidst her preparations to set off, but still managed to gift the Sage with a practiced, grateful smile.

‘The girl’s parentage,’ his aquamarine eyes, so far amused and kindly, had obtained a cold gleam she had not read in him before; not today, not ever in court.

‘We already talked about this, no? Or was there anything –’

‘I expect _elle_ to make mistakes like this, especially when there are more exciting and pleasant aspects to consider when around children. They are captivating, would you not say? Be they elven, human, or any other species, come to think of it. Add to it that in this instance the mistake is easy to make. Nothing in her apparent physiology gives it away.’

‘I’m afraid I do not understand.’

‘I, therefore, expect that your mistake was perfectly innocent,’ he continued. ‘That you genuinely did not realise the magnitude of this blunder which, though not yours in the most direct sense, you would now like to make vanish with as little fuss as possible. It is a little humiliating to clean up after another’s cravings, after all, yet your loyalty does you credit.’

He leaned over the table, taking her hand in his; mimicking her gesture from earlier.

‘You did not come between these walls, which – you should know – make it very difficult to hide anything worth learning, and think you could hoodwink me with your marvellously acted, entirely logical excuses for ignorance.’

Her eyes caught the dried brown dots on the sleeves of his shirt again.

‘You are doing me a great favour, O Knowing One,' she smiled. 'How would you like me to repay you?’

His eyes softened a little as he stroked her hand, considering. When he had made his request, Isilira Étain Bébhinne, or Madame Periwinkle to those who knew her well, got up and took the apple from the table. Calling the child back in, she handed it to her, and left, fuming.

The human girl regarded the tall elf underneath the apple tree fearfully.

‘Come here, please!’ he called at last, and she went.

The magic inherent in the walls of Myr got to her. She could barely see over the white stone balustrade, but was still utterly entranced by the infinite blue space that opened up all around and above her as she stepped onto the balcony. The whole world looked different from here. It made her limbs tingle. As she stared, the little girl with hair black as ink failed to notice how several items and pieces of furniture in the room she had just passed through changed from one thing to another.

The elf coughed.

At once, the child’s eyes hit the ground.

‘Easy now,’ his voice was nice and melodious, so she risked a look up and discovered that his eyes were blue too, though lighter and colder than the sky above. ‘How’s your finger? Does not hurt anymore, does it?’

The red-blooming pinprick she had clenched in her palm all this time had indeed faded into nothing.

‘You must feel a little confused with all the adventure you have seen as of late.’ She nodded. ‘Scared? What would you say if I promised you that I could make all the bad things that have been happening to you go away? Forever, child. I promise, you will barely notice the difference.’

When she did not respond the tall elf who had taken her blood earlier indicated toward the golden apple in her hand.

‘Are you hungry?’

She was not.

But it was rude to refuse an offer of food, so she ate.

And fast fell to the floor.

\---//---

**_§I_ **

_Let it, with the following, be established:_

_the basic responsibilities and intentions of all elle for guaranteeing the physical and mental well-being of every being who be distinguished by features peculiar to “children” (§V), the protection of children, the restrictions and prohibitions for working with children, the good principles of the general treatment of children, the correct conduct for dealing with a child who be in danger or in need of assistance, the legal penalties for violations of good conduct and for the violation of the spirit of the Child Protection Act in the absence of extenuating circumstances (§VIII)._

_\- Ge’els aep Dielfélair,  
_ Child Protection Act, ‘The First Draft’,  
 _Exercises in Jurisprudence_  
rejected on grounds of fuzzy definitions in §V

_\---//---_

He would never have taken this commission off Sinath were it not for Madame Periwinkle’s fortuitous connection to two special individuals on whose words and deeds important things could come to depend from time to time: her brother Ge’els, the very embodiment of the red tape of Aen Elle nobility - and her lover of several years, Eredin, the very definition of the lack of due process. The latter he could at least digest for flavour, but Ge’els - and Avallac’h and Eredin agreed on this - was as flavoursome as reading the general ledger.

In fairness, it had not been entirely necessary to treat Isilira as he had, he thought, descending along the spiralling staircase that led away from the façade of Myr, which guests were welcome to behold while meeting with its inhabitants. He did not hold her quirks, pleasures or choice of lovers against her; not in private. It was also not like he did not already have keen eyes and ears, eager to pay off their debts to him mostly everywhere he wanted them at present; although, there was no force more volatile than that of a wronged lover’s, and that could always come in useful. It was simply that his visit to Auberon had put him in an ill mood today, not to mention the nightmare. Therefore, he could not simply give up the opportunity to reap some benefit off of the universal irony that continued to harass his people. A shared misfortune was half a fortune.

Tiring of the monotony of the steps, Avallac’h called an end to the spiralling, dropped into the transverse portal that connected the staircase with all other staircases of the same order in Myr, and appeared on that closest to his laboratory. Upside down, which was a little disorientating, but that could always happen when tugging at the rubber band of gravity. Myr was pleasant like this: it had very flexible physics. He did not want to put the gravitas of their architects’ vision to shame, but in his experience, what other species admired in elven architecture could be distilled down to a simple principle: the effects of weight and stress did not matter as much in the construction of buildings. He calmly strolled down the volcanic rock and phased through the tapestry.

Caranthir was exactly where he had left him, bent over the alembics, cucurbits, and lutes under the phosphorescent glow of mage light.

‘Any news for me?’

He had left the analysis of the sample to him; though Caranthir lacked the context in which to situate his findings, it was still practice.

‘Mm, some. She is a half-elf, for starters.’

‘Truly? What a twist.’

‘At first, I pinned her for a quadroon, because the radical component is sparse. Diffuse. But there are also antibodies to very strange diseases, which a quadroon probably would not inherit.’ He’d gotten pretty far then. ‘Master, if I may… I haven’t double-checked yet, but basic immunology makes this sample deviate from our standard by several orders of magnitude. It seems to contradict my verdict on her origin.’

‘Perhaps you would like to take a look in her subconscious to ascertain she is not from, say, Kipler? You know I am not interested in conjecture.’

The young elf hesitated. ‘Yes, I – of course. I just noticed a discrepancy I could not explain –’

‘You misunderstand; I'm merely offering you another chance at finding a correct answer. She is young. Everything is relatively lucid and truthful inside there, as it is wont to be with children. It will take less time than cross-source verification.’

‘It is never simple when I practice with other adepts.’

‘That is the effect of asymmetrical biology, I’m afraid. Not all physical signs of maturity correspond to each other between our races, despite appearances,’ he washed his hands and face in a silver basin. ‘Would you like to try?’

‘I would,’ he looked on with pleasure as the expression of his pupil brightened at receiving an opportunity instead of a scolding, ‘but where is the girl, master?’

‘Right here. Set her –’ well this was annoying. ‘Ah. Be so kind and fetch her; I’ll take over here while you’re gone.’

He brushed a lock of flaxen hair from the boy’s forehead, letting him know via telepathy where exactly he had left the unconscious child before taking the shortcut. ‘Shouldn’t take you a minute. I doubt she has wandered off.’

‘Yes, master.’

Caranthir waited for the temporary removal of a link in the chain that guarded this place and disappeared in a flash when Avallac’h made it happen.

_Good little ley line._

He seated himself where the son of Feiniel had been, summoning another orb of light above him as he took a look at Caranthir’s handiwork.

Avallac’h’s laboratory had no windows. This was down to the multiple purposes its master had for the place: as archive, library, laboratory, apothecary, and surgery. Invaluable tomes on tall bookshelves no longer suffered contact with direct sunlight, or required the presence of near complete darkness to trigger the coding that hid the formulas inside. Many substances, reagents, and catalysts, regardless of whether they were contained in porcelain or glass, reacted to the presence of solar ultraviolet. Not even during synthesis but during storage, an incorrect amount of light could change the composition of a cure so it became poison, or make an inactive toxin intended for release under specific conditions release prematurely, rendering expensive poisons practically useless. Not to mention the various specimens preserved in green-yellow jars of formaldehyde and ethanol that dotted niches and glass-sealed shelves higher up than the operating level of the lab. There were simply too many things a single ray of sunlight could accomplish in a precisely contained and controlled darkness.

Having quickly taken in the details, he got up and headed through the third of narrow archways that connected the front with the back on several levels. He sought out a tall mirror that gave the appearance of having once been poured into the rock that held it. One by one, different images shifted into position, all three dimensional as if several other chambers awaited beyond the gleaming surface of the mirror. When he found what he was looking for, he reached out, ignoring the withering and twisting of his arm inside the mirror as it adjusted to new dimensions; odd from an onlooker’s perspective who wouldn’t have had moved an inch.

Before he could uncover and unlock the safe something clamped down on his arm. He stiffened and hissed a few words in another language. Rows and rows of little teeth that had bit him resorted to apologetic nibbling before letting go of his forearm altogether. He thanked the creature, got the encased vial he had been looking for, and removed himself from the world beyond the mirror. Predictably, the creature had left an ornate pattern of crooked teeth imprints on his skin, drawing blood here and there. Funny, he’d entirely forgotten he’d left it in there. He must remember to feed the creature sometime soon; talk to it – he would have hated for it to feel lonely. The chances of anyone ever getting so far as the mirror to steal anything from him were infinitesimal, anyway; he had just liked the patterns of its fur very much when he’d taken it with him.

Returning to the table laden with alchemical equipment, the Sage cast a protective charm on his hands and face and unsealed the meteorite steel encasing, letting the icy vapour dissipate until he could pick up the treasure inside.

Here lay the answer to what had confused Caranthir.

It was by and large the work of his former master and himself – that special brand of precious gold the Sparrowhawk carried in his veins, which granted a fighter everything needed in his line of work, starting from increased immunity to diseases found all across the Spiral and ending with the correct baseline for the development of sought-after personality traits. If _Hen Ichaer_ was considered a blessing – the crowning glory of his people – then here, in that slender vial, sat the ruthless ingenuity of daily drive and attainment. It was nowhere near as unique as the Gene: Avallac’h had since developed easier means for manipulating gene expression among their elite units, and had standardised certain elements that were universally desirable, like superior healing, immunity, physical endurance, enhanced senses and motor skills, and resistance to magic. But this particular combination was still extremely good, and since it was one of the very first of its kind it was unmistakable in all subsequent patterns it would inspire.

Perhaps this really was petty of him, he thought, as he created a green projection of runes on the table, reading the information recorded and retained with the sample. Though Avallac’h had implied otherwise earlier, in order to sow doubt and deepen Isilira’s sense of indebtedness to the sorcerer, he actually doubted she had any proof of her lover’s infidelity. Just a certain understandable insecurity. Eredin’s amorous appetite was not a secret, but with the orgies and bacchanalias Madame Periwinkle liked to throw on her properties, the father could have been anyone, including a _dh’oine_ from _Sidhe_. Except one did not fret about the unplanned progeny of one’s property to the extent of asking for clandestine meetings with Aen Saevherne just out of social embarrassment or fear of intervention by the law, especially if one was the daughter of the First Magistrate.

Eredin’s lifelust promised an opportunity and he wanted something good to come out of today, be it however minor. The project of _Aen Hen Ichaer_ lay dormant; it wouldn’t be a while before anything remotely noteworthy would surface, if ever. And if it would, it would be unrecognisable – a mess, a hybrid, a mutated work of butchery. He had no hope of encountering anything as pure, recognisable, and potent as Shiadhal’s and Auberon’s line again. All he had to work with were his own and other, more modest strands of the Gene that survived among the _elle_ and _seidhe,_ as well as the mutations deriving from the mixing of the blood of elves with humans'. For studying the latter, this incident was as good as any if not slightly more convenient and illuminating than most – if what he presumed was correct. Oh, he was certain Eredin was unaware of the child’s existence, or the little one would not have ever grown to an age where magic started manifesting among half-breeds. Sparrowhawk preferred to remain one of a kind and irreplaceable, despite seemingly subverting his own preference at every turn.

And there it was… the sufficient overlap he had been looking for. A genuine smile made its way onto his angular features.

Something small and agitated hit a cupboard with disinfectants nearby. Then another. The third chickadee, having broken free from the tapestry, just continued fluttering above and around the orbs of phosphorescent light until he squashed it with a gentle puff. That must have been Caranthir back. A fortnight ago it had been bullfinches, hadn't it? He allowed him entry, still absorbed in the pleasant buzz of his discovery.

Almost no one knew that Eredin Bréacc Glas was one of the first successful and still remaining results of growing life via in vitro fertilization. A solution that not only anticipated the problems that at the time were yet to appear and stemmed from the elves’ low rate of reproduction, but also created new opportunities for their main project. And yet, irrespective of this side-project’s ingenuity on paper, its results had fallen short of what _Hen Ichaer_ had required. Somewhere, an invisible line ran between the different rule sets they were attempting to mix: the line between a universe that was material and mundane and one that was supernatural and divined. Both existed, but according to their experiences as embodied beings, the elves were more of the latter not the first. So far.

Therefore, the preordained and the engineered had not mixed, the old and the new had bared teeth at each other - stillbirths, miscarriages, loss of elven life. The project had been shoved aside, buried, and left classified. Nevertheless, it was their “old way”, the preordained and dearly cared for – which pleased everyone’s sensibilities by at least giving the appearance of love and fate allowing for, rather than simply accompanying, the birth of miracle children – that had abandoned its faithful pilgrims just half a step away from re-capturing the glory of their legacy. They were left with naked effort and second-bests. In many respects, Lara's demise had forced them on the same rung as the _Dh’oine_ , but that was a painful thought Avallac’h never voiced.

_Vengeful darling fate._

He twirled the vial in-between his fingers.

Humans were many, the vast majority of them expendable due to receiving the short end of the stick of evolution. Elves were few, comparatively speaking, and their lives and genetic material was dear. Humans multiplied quickly and their lives extinguished just as fast, while elves did not revere time, yet for mothers things too often ended in tragedy. Still, cross-breeding occurred and, in purely physiological terms, occurred very successfully. No clash between different rule sets of different realities had prevented the merging of human and elven blood. Theoretically then, if life could be grown and genetic material safely stored, what was to prevent a reality where human women could, eventually, give birth to purely elven children? Without threat to their own lives or the lives of female elves. Would that not have been helpful?

Some had not liked this idea on principle; even a few among the Aen Saevherne. Impure. Desperate. Blasphemous. Lofty positions had been easy to hold while the main Project had still been running smoothly, but truthfully, Avallac'h had never felt more disappointed in his colleagues. Crevan's former master had even tried to destroy the results of his own life’s work when the world was burning down around them; an ineffective, puzzling volte face from the Sage who was ready to pour away the last of the life-giving water he’d found in the desert that threatened to swallow them all. In order to please a mirage of divine Perfection. Avallac'h, whose own faith in the preordained had shaken to its very core at the time, had picked the work up. Saved this at least, and bought them time.

When reality was crumbling, it paid to be the first one to man the lighthouse. If, however, Caranthir would not prove enough...

He watched as the son of Feiniel, the golden fruit of his own labour to combine the old and the new, levitated the small, dark-haired girl onto a clean metal table and checked her pulse.

_Treasures of the realm._

\---//---

He wandered aimlessly on that evening, and by the time he realised he had been doing so, it was already too late. His thoughts simply failed to coalesce on anything but the Seagull, with the brief relief afforded by work evaporating all too quickly. He was putting off the inevitable and he knew it.

‘The best lose all hope and the worst,’ a vicious cough rang under an entryway to a dim colonnade, ‘the worst revel in fervent and fitful power. Looking glass images without heart or mind. Do you think your stupid games will save you? Or the Plan? Without our gods' blessings?’

At first, Avallac’h didn’t register that anyone had even spoken, much less to him. When an empty amphora flew his way and shattered on the paving underneath the flying arches that dotted the circular road running around Myr, he retraced the last few things he had heard and drew the correct conclusions. Indeed, part of him blessed providence for its expedient sense of interference.

‘Master Nibelug,’ he turned swiftly on his heel, which transformed into a mockery of a half-bow. ‘To your good health never ending! Why, may I ask, are you harassing me from the gutter?’

‘Consider it my gratitude. This gutter is infinitely preferable to our asylum you and your cabal put me to.’

‘It won’t preserve you as well as we did. Do you come here often?’

‘Preserve,’ the elf snorted. ‘It’s very nice and cool here; helps with the development of arthritis. I need to live off something after all, and I prefer to choose my disability.’

He must have been ousted from an opium den, then.

Avallac’h had counted on something old and buried creeping his way today, and since it clearly could not have been Lara, since she never crept - nor had he buried her - it was to be his teacher, who had just been on his mind. You always had to be very careful with who you thought about: they all had an uncanny ability to show up as if summoned, in one way or another, to express hurt over not being thought about often and kindly enough.

‘The Council ruled in favour of your release, not me. Do not torture yourself with arthritis for receiving an allowance. Your status as an asset to the realm was never revoked. You are entitled to a pension.’

‘Spare me your horseshit. You would rather not martyr me, that’s what.’

He sighed.

‘I’m not insane. I never was,’ the old elf coughed once more, almost hiding the disbelieving tremble in his voice, but not the shaking of his scraggy shoulders. ‘You and I both know that. My work for us was a mistake. My intentions – impure and misguided. As for our Queen's fate… we must try to understand. They had cause to fear. We have cause to fear! Life’s Plan is the only one. If its will is for us to disappear…’

This was unbelievable; had the reconditioning achieved nothing?

‘If only Auberon could hear you.’

‘Auberon would understand if he stopped listening –’

‘I could have you sent to the provinces, where freedom for such thought abounds, Nibelug. There you could spill all your concerns to our friends beyond the barrier, for you appear to share viewpoints. I doubt they would listen, but finding that out is what I spared you of.’

A death sentence. Or worse, as the memory of what had been done to Shiadhal served to remind them.

‘You! You spared me of nothing, you warped, vain, arrogant scum! Who are you to think you can surpass the beauty of creation? To supplant fate? When I -’ the disgraced Knower hissed through his teeth. His attempts at hauling himself up were not met with success.

Arthritis must have been setting in.

‘You failed,’ Avallac’h shrugged. ‘You overbalanced.’

The wheel had already turned and shadows beyond the veil of history did not mix with light. Their continued existence served only light’s glory as it broke the night.

‘There is no salvation waiting where you are looking for it. Who are you without her? Without Lara? You could not defend what was handed to you on a silver platter. What is your purpose – do you even know anymore?’

With measured, slow steps Avallac’h approached the elf.

At the precise point where an invisible line cut the world around them in two, he stopped and leaned in, bowing through the veil that separated light from twilight, new from old, and gently took Nibelug by his jaw.

‘Destiny is inexorable, and I, its curator.’

‘You don’t believe that! You don’t even know what it means! You don’t, Crevan! Do you hear me? You don’t! _D'yaebl!_ ’

_Glorsanne a’ýparxie!_

\---//---

When he retired for the night, opting for the royal estate outside of the capital, Alis was already waiting for him. Avallac’h had sent for her first thing in the morning; he wasn’t going to delude himself that this time would be different. He was pleased she still came.

_That perfume._

He got rid of his overcoat and settled in a tall armchair, waiting for her to register his presence and leave off pampering the birds he kept on the balcony of his solar. She liked them; that was as much as he remembered about her preferences.

The bathwater had been drawn on time and a bottle stood uncorked on the long ebony table, where nothing else was ever touched by anyone but him. She was welcome to whatever she liked, as long as he got what he wanted. As long as she did not make herself at home.

When she finally joined him, his brief pleasure at her accommodating him once again had already managed to dissipate.

‘Someone on your mind, my Lord?’

‘Leave it.’

She pursed her creamy lips, testing the steaming water in the bathtub. Turning her back to him. Removing the silver from around her wrists. One by one, her treasures plopped into hot water, giving birth to ripples on the decorative ceiling above.

_Hair of white gold, spread out on the surface of a lake._

‘How can I leave it if you won’t let me?’

The sorcerer closed his eyes briefly, tapping his fingers against the armrest. When he opened them again, a veil of glamour blotted out their natural brilliance.

‘Come here, please,’ he asked quietly, stretching, and spreading his legs.

She spun around, her slender arms raised around her neck, unlacing her dress. ‘But I am a creature of water, not fog!’ Grinning maliciously.

He looked at her impassively, taking in how little the change in him affected her compared to their first times. Not who she wanted; no he was not. How come he was suddenly not that, when before she had bound herself to him gladly? Tying their hands together at Belleteyn.

Soft mist wrapped around her shoulders, hugging the four uneven and ugly stumps of her hand. Frozen, dead, gone… why had she chosen this?

‘You’re ill, Crevan,’ the woman’s hands dropped to her sides, her posture fell. ‘Do you realise?’

He could have commanded her to obey. Instead, he rose and went over to where she had said she felt more at home. Near water. Stretched out above it.

He ran his palm down the length of her spine, pulling where silk met skin, and she was compelled to lean in. Putting her two healthy hands underneath his shirt and tending to him. Did she not know why he was unwell? He took her neck between his hands, massaging gently, circling it in full.

‘We had an agreement.’

So fragile. So lovely. His to hold and protect. Milky eyes searched for that special green they had summoned.

‘I am capable of more than your tired imagination allows for.’

‘Would you kindly stop talking? Are you capable of that?’

She was.

She knelt between his legs: submitting him to the squeeze of her lips; taking him without question or further reproach. The elf sank in a fog of pleasure that was both now and then. In her blessed silence, he could not look away: not from the contemptuous smile or the curve of her cheekbones, the stretch of her lips, the tears that ran when his caresses in her hair turned into a fist, tugging her closer to him. Putting her out of rhythm, out of herself. Forcing her to feel how it had felt like for him. Until she lost focus, averted her beautiful eyes. He didn’t want that. No, no, he did not want that at all. Didn’t she know how dear the sight of her was to him? He would do anything.

Reddened lips popped off his cock. He was ready to kneel at her side; kiss her tears away.

‘What will you do –’

She had to ruin it. He flicked his fingers to change her sound.

‘– once I’m gone, I wonder?'

The sorcerer didn’t give her upset much thought when he bent her over the edge of water next, kissing up to her half-open mouth. If she was going to daunt him, she might as well do it with Lara’s voice as well, and he might as well sink entirely if he was going to give vent to his agony. They had an agreement, and he kept his word. Didn’t he? He brushed her swollen lips with his thumb as he entered her. Why couldn’t she?

‘This will be the last time,’ she whispered.

He knew.

From the quiver of her voice, from her silence at what she saw through the sorcerer's eyes in the water.

He knew.

He spread his palm on the flat curve of her stomach, rubbing softly, supporting her against the strokes of his hips. The white gold of his beloved fell on the surface of warm water. At the bottom shone Alis' silver. Her offering, which he did not want nor care about. He couldn’t. Because of _her_ : who made him lose all sense. Because of the one he wanted, could not bid farewell to, and could not forgive. Who he couldn’t… forgive himself for. He didn’t know anymore. He didn’t care. He just wanted this. What will he do when she is gone? What was his purpose? Her name fell from his lips, again and again, and promises he could no longer keep followed.

Crevan didn’t hear when the courtesan left. There was nothing. Nothing at all.

Til his chest heaved painfully and he covered his eyes with his hand.

That night he passed out again, hoping for nothing, expecting nightmares, only to wake in a living dream. He was snatched up by a hungry vision, and he struggled with its appetite for some time before it allowed him to start weaving.

Wading through floating guts and frayed ligaments he got to her in her river of red. She stood alone between the two shores, together with whom she nurtured in her womb. With death. And her skin was very cold, as he found when he wrapped his arms tentatively around her. He could not be surprised; she could not be livid. Emotion did not penetrate the fabric of ancient innocence and one’s will did not matter. Everything just was. Only what happened mattered and only that _could_ happen.

He held her until her cold had invaded him wholly, giving the aquamarine of his eyes their brilliance, and she stiffened, her muscles contracting, trembling, and the weight of her falling back on his arms. But instead of blood and deformity… a swallow fell on his palm.

Petite and lithe, delicate as an eggshell, claiming a spot for itself above the boundless waters of darkness with its broken chirps; blind, alone. A single one. Lara’s blood.

The first of spring.

Cold fingers entwined with his and slowly closed his hand around the fledgling, shielding it from the hungry touch of the void. Its body pulsated with warmth and it seeped into his veins, chasing off the eternal hoarfrost between the stars. He gave back to it, cocooning the newborn in the trembling lightness of being.

‘Have faith.’

Avallac’h raised his eyes.

And teetered on the edge of nothingness.

For the rest of the night the Sage kept a faint light on, veering between oblivion and catatonic stupor. If any of his natural enemies had found him like this, they would have made a quick work of him. They would never have learned what he had seen or what was to befall them all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mythology  
>  **Brownie** \- a household spirit from British folklore that is said to come out at night while the owners of the house are asleep and perform various chores and farming tasks. Humans are, effectively, the Brownies of the Aen Elle world.  
>  **Belleteyn** \- May Day. 30th of April to 1st of May. Nowadays also known as Walpurgisnacht. Beltane for the Celts. It is a fertility festival beginning at dusk on the 30th and continuing until the dawn of the 1st. It is also a traditional time to begin (or end) relationships of a physical nature. Focuses on rebirth, love, new beginnings, and is a time of many marriages. Various customs and rituals abound around it.  
>  **Children** \- Classically, elves are obsessed with children for various reasons, as they are too in Sapkowski's work. The changeling motif, however, appears to be the reverse of the classic tale, as concerns Lara and her offsprings. Usually, it is the humans who are afraid of the elves/fairies taking their children and leaving changelings in place of them.
> 
> Language  
>  _Sidhe_ \- World of the Aen Seidhe  
>  _Glorsanne a’ýparxie! _\- Glory be to Being!__
> 
> Constructive criticism & thoughts always welcome!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Partially re-written at 08/02/2021.
> 
> _‘Bravo! Simply magnificent! Listen to this, Oislyn – precisely like this must young elves express themselves! It would be a miracle if they did not gain followers, acting as they are. Once, youth had to learn a little of this, practice even more of that, and question-question-question – for who’d wish to become famous with some flippant stupidity, some ignorant dilettantism? Work for it, you divine little spark! Work! Now, however, all that seems to be necessary is to say that everything that came before is but hidebound piffle and that’s it! The young rejoice! How perceptive and clever they are! Indeed, in the past we would have deemed them morons, but now – now they have become nihilists!’_

In the muffled morning haze, light poured like a thin rivulet of blood over the cold ivory stone of palaces, villas, and shaded verandas, leaving a lick of pink on white canvas and putting vermillion into the shadows. Stained glass in window panes blossomed under the touch of liquid amber and stirred the imagination with an image of one endless iridescent spider web stretching between the gleaming, gilded spires. The world trembled gently under the touch of a new day and the sun-kissed scales of the river snaking through the city glowed like gold.

The young elf set the ambiance-siphoner aside and moved a long iron rod around in the glass, until powdered crystals in it had dissolved. He drank the elixir in one swig and left his quarters to break fast.

It was outrageously early, though not for magicians and royal researchers. Most of them claimed a special relationship with their internal clock, just like with everything else concerning their “organic shells”. Nature imposed patterns on its children and you had to acknowledge the awesome totality of its vision. This did not mean you had to respect its vision in every point with which it inconvenienced you, though. All magicians of certain calibre, without exception, shared a preference for being in control – of their time and otherwise. Their apprentices and auxiliaries, who were dispensed control in dribs and drabs, took the same endeavour doubly seriously and frequently over-compensated. It was mostly them you could find running errands around the clock on the labyrinthine avenues of Myr – the seat of magic in the realm of the Alder Folk.

Caranthir sat down at his usual place, under the spreading branches of one of the orange trees which grew behind the spherule fountains in the eastern wing of the hall of intersections. These were not real trees – their branches and trunk made of magically treated brass that was capable of soaking up artificial light and converting it into chemical energy – but they emanated real smell and bore real fruit. Oranges, the fruit of the gods.

He liked to eat here.

Before him stretched the skyline of the capital. The illusion had perfect dimensions. Had he stood up and walked down the sandstone steps to the walls – synchronised to reflect the outside world – it would have been enough to focus on a location in the city and activate the teleportation sigil. Instantly, he would have been taken through the enchanted walls to anywhere he wished to be at that moment. This hall with its sixteen cardinal “wings” formed a cross-road from where you could travel to most places within the jurisdiction of Tir ná Lia. It was like standing inside a map, and the network’s architecture fascinated him. The teleportation pathways were elegant, secure, and stable; it felt like sliding through warm sea water which left you feeling refreshed, unlike the drudgery of horse rides.

Notes of mandarin and freshly cut iris, trailed by patchouli and musk preceded the swish of long robes.

‘ _Beáth táitneach!_ ’ resounded a brisk greeting. A parcel in yellow paper landed in front of his nose, brushing dangerously against the water glass. ‘ _Que suecc's, Cnue’raidd?_ ’

 _‘Beáth’tedd_ , Trizen,’ Caranthir nodded respectfully, ignoring the nickname – Golden Fleece – which he felt ambivalent about. The woman’s eyes sparkled with secret knowledge every time she used it, and he had decided he liked that.

The elf who regularly joined him in these early hours kept her hair, the shade of caramel, shoulder-length. Barring two braids, which met at the nape of her neck and fell between the shoulder blades. A silver thread was woven into the braid, which the woman would undo only upon marriage – that is, never. On her fingers sparkled gemstones of various types and sizes, all set in silver, and they caught the eye first because they made the shape of her hands very uneven. Caranthir immediately made note of several he had not seen before. None of it was for the explicit purpose of beauty and charm – Trizenthal often worked with ancient reliquaries, cursed phylacteries, hexes and maledictions; she needed the protection.

‘Is this… all of it?’ he asked glumly, measuring the package’s weight, feel, and size, before sliding it out of sight.

‘I got you exactly what you asked for – nothing more, nothing less. As per our agreement.’

‘I hold you to your word on it.’ A shadow of displeasure touched the corner of the sorceress’ lips. ‘I can’t open it now to check, can I?’

‘Good. Lest you wish to insult me over a pittance.’

He did not wish to insult her at all. Neither did he know what it would actually take to accomplish that.

‘You know, I would have thought asking your master for these would have been simpler. I must say I regret you didn’t save the favour I owed you for something a little more… interesting, shall we say? What do you need them for, anyway?’

Caranthir avoided making eye-contact. Today’s dose of _kisko_ was beginning to take effect.

‘I did not want to bother him.’

She laughed, naturally. She laughed at him often. It annoyed him. He guessed she viewed him often as a little brother. Trizenthal had taken her first steps on Dreamlace Roads before he’d been born, and though an apprentice still, she was also practically independent. Aramil, her master, assisted the military, which mobilized nearly all of his time.

‘Come now, why would he deny you anything, _Cnue’raidd_? Especially these,’ she wrinkled her nose. But then continued with intrigue: ‘Or do you think the archimago does not trust his Golden Child?’

Caranthir admired the oranges in the tree in silence; fresh and shining like dozens of tiny suns breaking the horizon. He imagined the orange spheres going out. Worlds, one by one, were swallowed by the event horizon. Darkness, cold and still – black that was so black you could fall inside – took their place. Time swallowed all.

_Shadows hang tallest the second after the break of dawn. Dearme, feainne a’baeth. Dearme._

He blinked.

Dawn’s bloody spectacle had ended, having brushed the last of the fierce vermillion away from inside the shadows of the white palaces of the elven city. What one could glimpse but briefly had been dragged out of sight once more. One day the blood that flowed in the shadows would fall out of memory; Caranthir had been born to make it possible.

‘I hope he does.’

Laughter rang, clean and unabashed, under an orange tree that was not a real orange tree. It made the voice and the shadows inside the young elf’s mind disappear like a sour dream. He saw that Trizenthal was having meringue for breakfast.

‘I am only jesting with you. You understand that, don’t you?’ she pulled a fruit from the tree and sliced it apart, squeezing the tasty juice into her drink. ‘I hope you haven’t taken more than prescribed again.’

‘I have only taken as much as prescribed to me. What business is it of yours?’

‘Where are you hurrying to? Impatience with _kisko_ can be costly. It can hollow out your psyche instead of expanding its receptive horizon. It can invite possession by the _mywnli_ and by ideas that you are far from understanding and mastering.’

‘Perhaps I am able to take more than most.’

‘Perhaps opening your mind has put a hole in it? Hm, treasure?’

Caranthir rolled his eyes. ‘It is not for everybody. Maybe it was not for you. My master trusts I can handle it. Thus... thus I must believe I can.’

The woman considered him carefully.

‘Let me tell you an open secret, _Cnue’raidd_ : none of them really trust us. Testing us is part of it, and not only for the sake of teaching. Nothing personal though. They can’t be otherwise, and I don’t fault them for it.’

 _How does one learn which beliefs guide one and which one jests with?_ _Listen, until they tell you._

‘We are them; their future.’

They ate in the brightening sunlight and enjoyed each other’s company, though Caranthir felt he would have enjoyed it more without her comments. It showed too, and after a while, the sorceress got tired of it:

‘Oh do lighten up, will you? I already said, I jest. Making you work for what you desire is the point.’

He smiled at this, sucking on the fruit of the gods. Knowledge was never given to anyone for free, but what you had to sacrifice for knowledge depended a great deal on who it was you ended up owing for it. An enduring debt of gratitude that tethered an apprentice to an Aen Saevherne could not be paid off, only passed on. On and on, in an endless cycle. At some point, an apprentice simply had to begin subverting the nature of this relationship: accruing debts from others and devising alternatives to the most direct route of begging for scraps.

‘I think he trusts me to act in his own image.’

\---//---

They had their conversation between the dogwoods by the pond. It was the fourth attempt by Nirthe-Cinn to get the mushroom peddler, Liona, to share her experiences of the abnormal teleportation attempt that had landed her in the care of the convent. To the annoyance of the healers, Nirthe-Cinn had persisted through the first three unsuccessful ones.

‘Is this – are you drawing me?’

‘I am,’ she nodded. ‘I hope you don’t mind, it’s for the Circle. I won’t show it to you if you think it would upset you.’

‘Oh, I see. You keep records. But yes... perhaps don’t show it to me. Mirrors too, you know, make me –’

‘I know.’

She adjusted the drawing board on her knees.

‘You emerged from the portal two-fold: yourself and a “copy” of you. That must have been quite a fright.’

‘Oh yes.’

‘But the copy evaporated in a few minutes. Sometimes there are artefacts, you know? Sometimes the centrifugal forces within the vortex severely impact the nervous system and the mind thinks it sees things.’

‘Sometimes it rips you in two,’ Liona muttered quietly.

‘Oh no! Not with these portals,’ she shook her head. ‘I understand the fright such spooky experiences can instil, but be reassured, nothing as dramatic could simply ever happen here. Standard inter-municipality gates are perfectly safe at all times. It is more likely to get run over by an ordinary cart, really.’

The mushroom peddler didn’t say anything, looking at the ducks on the pond. Nirthe-Cinn scolded herself for her tone; she simply did not want the poor woman to imagine the unlikeliest of what could have happened while they were finally making progress with figuring out what in all likelihood could have happened.

‘This time the gate was not safe,’ the woman said after a while. ‘I have worked with the _Wanne Amanita_ plantation for thirty six years. I have taken that route, and others, countless times, as promoting our joyful mushrooms has sent me far and wide. Twice to the far north even, where you cannot get in any other way than via multiple hops. I like travelling, you know. Or I think that some part of me did. I think I took to it well too; no vertigo, no sleep disturbances. But, Lady Nirthe, this time the gate was not safe. Because things like this do not happen, as you say. But they happened this time – to me. Or... part of me.’

She made note of the pensive haunting in the she-elf’s chartreuse eyes, diligently sketching away.

‘I – I spoke to her.’

‘I see.’

‘I asked her, who she was. I asked... me. I think neither of us understood how to answer that. But her lips opened. I know my lips were closed. Then I got scared.’

Nirthe-Cinn dipped her quill in ink, smiling compassionately.

‘She told me she was afraid for me. Or... I told it to myself. That I was afraid for myself.’

‘It must have felt very confusing.’

‘No. No, actually it felt very illuminating. But strange in a way, yes, because... I don’t know how to explain – I don’t know, you will laugh –’

‘I will not laugh, Lady Liona. I would never laugh at my patients. I am here to help you through this. Would you like to tell me what it felt like?’

‘It felt like a hundred thousand strings swayed between us, connected us and what’s within us,’ she said. ‘It’s like bad poetry, I am sorry, I don’t know how to...’

‘Please continue.’

‘Oh. Oh, alright. I’ll try to –’

‘As is most comfortable for you. There is no rush.’

The woman sighed and rested her chin on her hand, gazing across the ponds. For a while, she gathered her thoughts, breathing deeply and evenly. There was absolutely nothing in the convent gardens to agitate or cause doubt in the integrity of their calm surroundings. Tranquillity ruled here, and eternal summer.

And though the healers’ grumbling disposition toward Nirthe-Cinn implied otherwise, the psycho-sounder was not here to wrest information from Liona. Did they presume she would waltz in here and simply dump it on the mushroom peddler: how, in seeming direct aftermath to the abnormal gate-activity, all groundwater had frozen along the Yarn Line on Liona’s path? How _Wanne Amanita_ ’s plantation would probably have to pack its bags and re-settle, along with several small villages? How she, therefore, must stop jabbering about teleportation cloning and think clearly! What utter unprofessionalism that would have been – even if the High Command, demanding for an authentic experiential account, would have preferred to expedite the process by all means necessary. Nirthe-Cinn’s oaths prohibited harm to expedite any processes. Especially since connecting individual teleportation issues with terrestrial anomalies did not make a whole lot of sense. It was blame game, plain and simple.

‘I think I noticed it only when... when one-by-one, these strings that connected us started coming apart,’ Liona spoke softly, her gaze still lost along the ponds. ‘Suddenly, I began to feel as if a stranger to myself. As if half of me were disappearing utterly. Like I was not... well, like I was not supposed to be here at all. All of it happened in mere minutes, but it felt like a century had passed. I was scared. I remember wanting to take a step to run or to take hold of her – myself, that is – but I could not. The air got very cold in my lungs, and I saw... I think I saw through her – myself – for a moment. The world I saw – our world. I saw the plains. The sky. I saw through myself as she, or I, was fading.’

‘What is it that you saw, Lady Liona?’

‘I saw Cold.’

\---//---

Trizenthal had been right, of course.

In exchange for finding an elegant fix for a crazy channelling pathway inside a cursed phylactery, he had asked Trizen for copies of the latest charts covering the state of magical intersections on the borderlands – the Yarn Lines. Since he wasn’t asking for himself, it would have been especially ill-advised to ask for a favour from someone over whom he had no leverage. Someone like his master, for instance. A debt was no laughing matter and, on this occasion especially, Caranthir did not wish to explain himself.

He walked quickly, manoeuvring the footways along the narrow canals which branched off from the calmly flowing Easnadh, and crossed at least a dozen lace-patterned bridges, drowning in ivy and clematis that fell above green-blue water. Then and again, elegant long-nosed boats could be glimpsed heading downstream along the main channel, carrying cheerfully dressed elves to their nightly diversions. There was music and there was singing. Caranthir did not intend to cross the river tonight, however, staying instead where richly decorated estates dominated the rising landscape and where the smell of honeysuckle could be felt the strongest.

Gradually, it helped erase the traces of formaldehyde.

At some point, between checking the girl’s vitals and preparing the sedatives, he had caught the hazel-grey eyes blinking and looking at him in dream-induced confusion. _She has very pretty and boring dreams._ Had she been capable of thought in that moment? Of forming recollections? Which had had the greater impact on the girl’s subconscious – the crushing darkness or the merciful light which had illuminated the faces of himself and his teacher?

Lately, Caranthir had spent a lot of time in laboratories. He had learned, for instance, that a certain fruit off the table of the Alders induced narcotic dreams, nightmares, and paralysis in _dh’oine_. It carried a signature touch that could be observed in their dreamscapes, as every such tree tapped into the ancestral memories of the Alder Folk. Caranthir had recognised it easily in the sleeping mind of the child. This very same fruit was consumed as a first time catalyst by the chosen few who were destined to walk the Dreamlace Roads to become the living aspects of ancestral knowledge.

On Dreamlace Roads, all reality intersected and the birth of concrete, embryonic times and places could be witnessed from the moment of the loss of singularity, where idea and form had been one, to infinity; inside the trap laid by Time. Though Caranthir was still consuming _kisko_ , which prepared the psyche for this advanced way of learning, he’d had to agree with his teacher that essentially, this too was but another manner of navigation.

Conversely, the extract of the trees that bore this golden fruit, when mixed with special herbs, left a permanent imprint on the memories of humans – burning them out, crippling the catalysis of long-term recall in the hippocampus. He had memorized a catalogue of experimental side-effects in _dh’oine_ who were brought to this world and relieved of their earthly burdens to help them adapt and live simple lives of servitude. Subjects – as they had known themselves – did not awaken again once they were put under. The fruit also preserved the organism against metabolic failure further down the line.

Caranthir hadn’t learned what awaited the little raven he had briefly met today; Avallac’h had disclosed very little when he had tasked him with the practicum this afternoon. He knew though that in his master’s place, he would not have wasted the blessed fruit on a half-breed.

Finally stepping onto the sun-kissed cobblestones of the street that was bisected by an eye-catching skywalk, he made his way toward the wisteria-clad arbour that welcomed the guests of Cartouche.

‘ _Ceád, nublu_. Where’s the rush?’

‘The bard’s awful out of tune tonight. Don’t bother for the fanfare.’

‘Bother only for the spirit! And with spirits, _nublu!_ ’

Caranthir swallowed heavily, almost shoving away one of the merry she-elves who had briefly managed to hook her arm around his before carrying on along the road. _Nublu?_ He wasn’t some plebeian’s pet to have to tolerate such things.

Nights off did not come around very often, especially ones on which the sorcerer’s apprentice could consider stealing off into the city unsupervised. For a long time at the very beginning he had not been allowed even that. By wandering off he risked punishment, and had he not been driven by what felt like an insurmountable sense of personal necessity, Caranthir would not have broken the agreement with his master in the first place. By law and custom, a pupil to an Aen Saevherne had to submit to them voluntarily and unequivocally. Most things weren’t worth upsetting such an arrangement over.

When consequences had eluded him after the third consecutive occasion, however, the youth had gained enough confidence in that this must have been fated and had to happen. Over the years, he had learned to detect and somewhat predict the prolonged absences of his teacher through the invisible tethers that bound them and usually allowed Avallac’h to be aware of Caranthir’s state of mind and overall condition at all times. Thus, he knew to pick the days when an odd, melancholy mood overcame the Fox, and today had turned out to be one of such days. A gap and an opportunity to exploit.

A bard with his lute entertained the guests of Cartouche who’d settled outdoors, sitting on steel-wrought stairs around circular tables or laying down comfortably on large pillows, smoking the colourful narguiles. He didn’t much like music, so he didn’t particularly care if the bard was out of tune or not. He headed indoors.

‘Bravo! Simply magnificent! Listen to this, Oislyn – precisely like this must young elves express themselves! It would be a miracle if they did not gain followers, acting as they are. Once, youth had to learn a little of this, practice even more of that, and question-question-question – for who’d wish to become famous with some flippant stupidity, some ignorant dilettantism? Work for it, you divine little spark! Work! Now, however, all that seems to be necessary is to say that everything that came before is but hidebound piffle and that’s it! The young rejoice! How perceptive and clever they are! Indeed, in the past we would have deemed them morons, but now – now they have become nihilists!’

The thick, cloying smell of incense was difficult to get used to at first, though both of the tall, leaded-glass windows facing the street were open and a welcome breeze could be felt among the crowd. Slender musicians and young professionals in airy gowns and thoughtfully selected jewellery threw indifferent looks toward their rivals – the socialites in elaborate evening dresses – in an aggressive attempt at inverse snobbery. Lesser nobles, artists, and gamblers in colourful vests and half-undone shirts tapped their buckled boots when making a point to the delight of their admirers and toasted with glasses in which sloshed sparkling ambrosia. The joint was frequented by all kinds.

The young magician kept his cloak on, despite the hot air weighing him down. Apprentices from Myr tended to arouse special interest when recognised – rarely because of who they were and more often because of who they answered to. It wasn’t very flattering, but some, like Trizen, had made it work for them. _‘Not everyone can rely on endowments or noble lineage, Cnue’raidd.’_ It was one of the few things Caranthir disliked about her: this indifference toward horse haggling.

He worked his way further in, past the _kirkyat_ tables.

‘I had no first love, my love. See, I began with the second.’

‘Watch the drinks, _cara!’_

‘Better watch me instead...’

The chatter ebbed and rose to the distant notes of the lute from outside. An imposing bunch with sharp eyes and quick hands had gathered around the _kirkyat_ tables and everybody was drawn to them due to their unrestrained joviality. Having sighted who he had been looking for, Caranthir made his way over to the bar stand, taking intentionally longer to keep out of field of view for as long as possible. He thought he would save himself some time to think of what to say this way, but only that thought and nothing of substance whirled in his mind, rendering his plan practically pointless.

Then, he waited.

Until Helnaham turned on a hunch at being watched – and flinched.

‘ _Ceád'mil_.’

To a trained eye, the similarities between the two elves would not go unnoticed. Neither had to resort to tricks to make an impression, for starters, yet Caranthir’s eyes bore little resemblance to the other’s misty blue and his flaxen hair, which he kept short, was of a much lighter shade. There was also a steady, reliable quality to the father, which made him seem humble in contrast to the son he had sired, and hardly anything had to occur for this to be immediately apparent. Some qualities were bone-deep. Where did genes end and upbringing begin? Where did one influence end and the other’s start?

Though it was only for a moment, the young elf spotted the look of discomfort that passed over his elder’s features. It angered him. He had hoped it would get better.

‘It’s a nice evening, is it not?’

‘Blessed be the sky spirits, really nice,’ Helnaham assented. ‘Not least for subterfuge and sneaking. _Ceád'mil_.’

‘You looked to be deep in thought. Wizards should never be disturbed when they are thinking.’

‘I am not a wizard like you.’

‘I am not one either. Not yet, at any rate.’

‘Yet you already think like one.’ Then more softly. ‘I am glad.’

On his first day at Tir ná Lia Caranthir had snuck off, spurred by an urge he had not quite understood at the time. He had wanted to find something familiar; _someone_ , who should have felt familiar since his very first days in this world. It had been rather pathetic, come to think of it, but then again so had been the hours he had spent before the looking glass, phasing back and forth and studying his own features. As if in hopes of finding some code or secret password that would have unlocked the lines and cues he had not inherited from Feiniel. Something that would have explained who he was and why was he was exactly like he was. Something that would have made him feel, if not normal, then at least vaguely familiar in his own skin.

He had imagined a lot: when in town, when listening in on his mother’s male guests, when by the portside where one could often sight new faces. And when on that first day at Tir ná Lia he had finally added a face to a concept, a truth value to a proposition, he had felt... indifferent. Excited at first at getting a glimpse of his biological father and then instantly – indifferent. Caranthir had not had the time to reflect upon that feeling, because he had met with his teacher shortly afterward; for only the second time in his life, though somehow it had not felt like that at all.

_Golden Child._

Caranthir had figured out pretty fast that when elves at Myr called him like this, they did so in compliment to his master rather than because of something inherent to his own person.

_‘It is not a compliment, but a reminder, weddin. They are reminding me, in case I forget.’_

Caranthir had put the day at Gaeth an Gyre out of his mind for years as the serpent of fate wound around him in a tender embrace. He had no longer had any need of the looking glass, either.

Until one evening years since, the Sage’s apprentice had messed up the teleportation addresses and, through surely naught but co-incidence, had witnessed Helnaham exiting a locale. The locale’s keeper said the place carried its name in honour of bringing together souls who had no choice but to meet sooner or later. ‘Better sooner than later,’ he had added though.

Helnaham came to Cartouche to relax and play _kirkyat_. Caranthir knew this because he had returned to the locale against better judgment: captivated once more by the memory of excited indifference or indifferent excitement. It was thoroughly irrational. Why would he have cared about knowing the man who had not been interested in knowing him; who was a father only nominally and perfectly content with it? What did it matter? What would it have changed? And yet Caranthir had returned twice in secret, only to sit and observe from afar: how pieces fell on the board, how the muscles in the elf’s face shifted when he laughed or commiserated or thought, how the other _elle_ treated him and how he responded to them. It was entirely unlike how elves at Myr treated his master, or Caranthir himself. It was without airs and humdrum.

Once more he had discovered himself from before the looking glass. Once more he had failed to recognize what he had seen at Cartouche, because it was very much unlike the bright aquamarines which met his gaze habitually, day after day after day; as if in replacement for his childhood or in extension of it. When he caught himself repeating phrases and snippets from overheard conversations at Cartouche, Caranthir had finally decided to put an end to it and introduce himself to the elf who “had not been at all unpleasant to his mother.”

Silence stretched between them.

‘Did you find a solution to your problem?’ the younger began. ‘Have there been new incidences – or any copies that have survived?’

‘Afraid not,’ the elf chuckled. ‘If any survived they would take it out of our hands instantly. And you would probably hear about it before myself.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure. They frown upon us distracting ourselves.’

‘All of you or just you?’

‘More often than not it feels like it’s just me.’

‘Excellence demands sacrifices,’ he muttered grimly. ‘As consolation, should you require it, you are not responsible for how the game was set up. Neither can you fix anything if you don’t know the ins and outs. This problem at the borders – I wager Myr would first send an experienced apprentice to help us out, yes, but hear me when I say that you would not like it very much. It is offensive to have an aspiring generalist dictate to a specialist what is right and what is not, and you’ll end up doing more politics than actual work.’

Helnaham ordered drinks.

‘Rejoice instead that you are too valuable to waste as experimental treatment in case the old guard cannot be bothered to draw themselves away from their pet projects and descend themselves.’

Caranthir snorted and the elf smiled.

‘I am right, aren’t I?’

There was so little caution in his words, so little reverence. Caranthir had not expected it. And he had not expected to like it. Helnaham did not seem to care at all about someone stepping on him. Perhaps he thought no one would ever find it worthwhile to bother in the first place. There was a kind of freedom in that, Caranthir realised, though surely it did not come for free.

‘It’s just that presently, I feel like I am doing everything else instead of exercising my valuable, natural talents.’

‘What’s that then, love?’

He frowned at the over-effusive endearment.

‘Chemistry, most recently.’

‘Genetics?’

‘I cannot elaborate.’

Why ever had he felt the need to say anything at all? What purpose did it serve? He called them generalists! He could not have known if Caranthir was really bemoaning, bragging or... whether he was trying to fit in with the way this elf seemed to think about things. Yet, the older elf simply nodded and changed the topic.

‘It’s an interesting problem, the one we now have on the borders,’ he said. ‘Highly dramatic. It seems the theory goes something like this: dematerialise a person or an item, beam the information to a new place, and there you have it! Who is this person, though? Is it you? Not exactly, right?’

‘These teleportation attempts with these unusual markers you describe – they do not complete themselves. Yet they create instabilities in the barriers and in the shielding force along the borders.’

‘Have you looked into it then?’ the elf asked cautiously. ‘You’re right, they do not complete themselves. Except for that one case but that did not end in tragedy, thankfully, and I have heard the woman is already recovering. The problem is that such shifts in the fundamental dynamics of our gates should not happen at all, especially on-world. Especially with the simplest types of pathways. My superior just about lost it when an inquiry came in from the Army High Command – his life’s work and so on.’

‘It follows if you adhere to the fundamentals of a hard-coded material universe,’ Caranthir said. ‘When we talked about it with my master, he pointed out spheres off our Spiral where they do not have a choice but to work within these constraints. With varying success, but still. For instance, it’s less energy consumptive overall than shifting the space around objects in order for them to arrive at their destination faster than light.’

‘And your teacher isn’t worried?’

‘Not particularly.’

Helnaham’s eyebrows flicked. Sparkling dust exploded above a sextet of pitcher plant-shaped glasses, which the mixologist finished preparing by lighting a purple flame above each. Dust settled and danced inside the merrily jumping flames.

‘Naturally, I can only speak from experience in this world alone. But yes, I suppose it generally follows,’ he made a face. ‘It should not follow in our sphere, though. In fact, it’s like a toddler has taken brushes to the fundamentals. The base layer on a canvas should not shift around like this after so much has already been solidly built upon it. Why would it? _D’yaebl,_ my sister-division is at its wits ends.’

‘You speak as if there really could be a toddler’s mind behind these anomalies.’

‘An exceptionally whimsical, mean, and intelligent toddler, if so. It’s so very inelegant – why flirt with the dark ages? But if the Sages aren’t even concerned... I suppose, we’ll do our best.’

‘Unicorns?’

Helnaham shrugged.

It was easy to talk like this. He was a portalist and Caranthir could see himself doing what he did. Focusing on practical questions of mutual interest helped to maintain a comfortable distance from addressing anything more than he felt he wished to address. He had thought he had questions at first, but once he had introduced himself, he had found that he simply did not want to inquire after anything. He had wished to leave, truthfully, berating himself for idiotic sentimentality, until Helnaham had made talk with him as if he’d met an old colleague. And that had been... fine. Interesting, in fact. For Caranthir found that he didn’t need to explain much at all about himself – Helnaham seemed to know just enough. And Caranthir didn’t need anything more.

Still. He touched the parcel inside his coat.

‘I might be able to help you.’

The elf rolled a silver coin around the sugar-brushed edge of his glass.

‘How?’

‘I can give you a look at the charts you mentioned.’

Several glasses broke to the chorus of startled feminine laughter nearby. A genuine surprise flickered in Helnaham’s misty blue eyes and he looked at Caranthir curiously. Much more curiously than he had ever looked at him so far.

‘You have them with you? Right now?’

‘I do.’

The elf bit his lip. His demeanour seemed to change entirely. He straightened against the bar stand, dragging his fingers through sunburnt hair, and held out his hand, running his palm down the seams of Caranthir’s navy coat. As if checking for the quality of the fabric. It was of exceptional quality, but so was everything about the young elf.

‘How did you get them?’

‘I needed them, so I took them.’

‘This isn’t how it works. Does your teacher –’

‘What do you know about how these things work?’

Helnaham froze.

‘A look is all I need.’

‘A look is all I can give. For a good cause.’

‘Yes, for a good cause. It’s good that you care,’ he gave a strained smile. ‘You wouldn’t have anything to be concerned about should you happen into the area or beyond. Meant, as you are, for... much more. But I am glad you can look past your privilege and see how different these matters are for ordinary _elle_. Such understanding should matter much more than blood.’

He looked at Caranthir in askance, waiting, his palm spread out over where the parcel sat inside the folds of his cloak.

‘Except in the reality of realities, blood can determine quite a bit. Quite a bit. How strongly young hearts feel and whether seasoned minds will throw caution and patience to the wind... or not.’

The pair had not noticed the interlocutor approach – despite his not at all shy countenance and decidedly haggardly appearance. A single look revealed he had long ago reached the age at which proclaiming one’s age was no longer very important. Judging by the depth of the purple shadows under his eyes and the prominent veins on his neck – both the signs of narcotics abuse – it had ceased to matter to the elf a long time ago as well.

‘My deepest apologies,’ he coughed hard, wiping his palm into his faded robes, and gave a small nod to each of them. ‘It’s simply that I recognised dear Helnaham here: a man of commendable values and interests. Fast friends with everyone and anyone too, as you can see by my example, no doubt.’

‘Ah...’ the man of excellent interests looked taken aback. ‘I thought we had agreed to meet later tonight.’

The newcomer ignored him entirely. Instead, he took in Caranthir from top to bottom in a manner so unashamedly forward as if he were assessing fresh cuts at the butcher’s, and the young elf felt hair on his neck rise up.

‘What’s this then? Hm? Though life may appear at times as but an eternal present, there can still be nothing more pressing than the character of those who come after us. Am I right? Each and every one, the seventh wonder of the world, though some more so than others.

‘Please, don’t be alarmed; I admit, I overheard some of your conversation. Yet, only what I wanted to hear, I assure you. I, too, have been young once, and know how vitally important it is to care about the right things. It takes much time, effort and _brains_ to learn what these things are, I’m afraid; even when you’re already very special and “meant for more”.’

An insistent, almost zealous light flickered in the elf’s jaded eyes.

‘Unless, of course, you let someone whisper the important things in your ear. But then... then you’re not very special at all. Will you introduce us, Helnaham? I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting your resourceful young friend here, who speaks about such interesting things in such precise, trained language. Have you known each other for long?’

Caranthir felt the faintest of brushes against his mind. A warning shot through him like hot wind. His eyes widened and the sensation vanished momentarily. His instincts told him to retreat, though what his eyes witnessed in front of him in no way connoted danger; rather it invited pity above all. The old elf frowned imperceptibly, then managed a crooked smile.

‘Cartouche is a charming place,’ Helnaham uttered. ‘I have often thought it really does bring together individuals who have something important to offer to each other. With my... friend here, it has been very gratifying to learn that the young appreciate what we do.’

‘Truly? Keen intellectual interest in the daily toil of portalists?’ the words dropped off the older elf’s tongue with disdain. ‘How very mild interests for one not even in their sixties.’

Caranthir did not care to correct him; it was rapidly dawning on him that he may have made a mistake.

‘He was about to help me with something I asked for,’ Helnaham said next, looking at Caranthir apologetically. ‘For our division.’

‘I’m afraid you’re confusing me for someone else.’

The cautious expectancy on the portalist’s face crumbled at pace. Perhaps he did not know his acquaintance was a telepath; perhaps this was indeed some misunderstanding born out of the ramblings of a confused, old mind, and out of Caranthir’s inherent wariness. Yet, he felt outnumbered. And he was not interested in remaining outnumbered or being interrogated.

‘The charts, you said –’

‘I’m afraid I can’t help you. I only stopped in for a quick drink.’

The stranger observed them both carefully. With a trained eye.

‘A fair evening to you both,’ he nodded and turned to leave.

But before he could take another step, another violent coughing bout shook the old elf. He stumbled forward, bony fingers wrapping around Caranthir’s wrist, and blocked his path.

‘My apologies. This terrible pneumonia, you understand…’

In one move, Caranthir had done a half-turn, taken the elf by the shoulder and twisted his arm out of his greedy clutch. He pushed. And was met with psychic resistance so strong it felt like he had tried applying force to a gong. The pain was stupefying and brought tears to his eyes. The magical warning trembled around his psyche, confronting the ties that bound him to his master, and died down. Someone was trying to establish his identity without his permission. He drew on the Power.

‘My-my. Who are you, boy?’ the elf hissed coldly. ‘Who sent you?’

He could feel curious eyes falling on them from all around.

Things may have gotten ugly, as they say.

If everything had not suddenly taken a turn toward the utterly ridiculous instead. Rich spray of foam followed by glimmering golden mead flew past in a beautiful arc and hit the haggardly elf, whose eyes had narrowed into slits, square in the chest. A woman with a tumbling hair-do resembling a pile of grapes gaped like a silver pike at a nearby table. Caranthir did not quite understand why he was fixating on her of all people all of a sudden before a pair of strong, wide palms grasped him by the shoulders and unceremoniously pushed him aside.

‘Beg your pardon, _taide._ Beg your pardon, humbly.’

Two new faces appeared by the telepath’s side, clasping him under his arms. The elf who had spoken wore a light brass-buttoned pelisse, done open at the front, and his hair ran the colour of dark copper. He held the glass which, until recently, had contained the mead. He did not look particularly concerned over losing face. Caranthir had never met any of them in his life.

‘It’d be better if we stepped outside. That cough doesn’t sound too good, _taide_ ; perhaps we ought to escort you to the doctor’s?’

‘Sod off, pup,’ the nameless vagabond snarled, giving his gaunt features the impression of a werecat, but balked noticeably at the grip on his arms tightening, and became rather docile afterward.

The redhead nodded to his companions. ‘We don’t want to bring discord in-between the walls of this fine and welcoming house. Let us help you to some fresh air that will soothe your pain.’

Under the curious, pitying looks, they led him away. Helnaham, who had shrunk away from the scuffle, wordlessly followed them outside. Caranthir wiped tears from his eyes and cursed softly, considering his options.

‘Hold on!’

The copper-haired elf blocked his way, offering him a dram.

‘I despise bad manners. Between sorcerers, especially. You have a terrible way of making beautiful things explode and poisoning the water in everyone’s cup just because you got a little carried away or someone insulted your precious feelings. Really unrefined, if you ask me.’

‘Unrefined – as opposed to what?’

‘A fair duel. Where everyone can see you but nobody has to pick up after you. I understand the importance of showing off, mind you.’

Caranthir didn’t doubt that; the stranger stood to attention with ease, arms akimbo. He would have been laughed off the stages for over-acting, but he predicted the red-head would have probably taken it as a compliment.

‘It looks like I keep being mistaken for someone I am not tonight,’ he sighed. ‘As to duels between magic wielders – I’m afraid, you may know less about that than you would like to think.’

He made to step past the elf, ignoring the offered dram and wanting to make sense of what had just happened.

‘How is this polite? How is this acceptable? This fellow was giving you trouble, was he not? I intervened on your behalf. You owe me.’

Apparently, it was not to be.

‘I owe you,’ Caranthir nodded begrudgingly. ‘You haven’t voiced your request, however, and would need some time to think it over; as do I, mind you. Until then –’

‘I think quickly on my feet, sorcerer with bad manners who refuses to be called a sorcerer; so listen! A little truthfulness would be a great start. I was about to extend an invitation to you to come and drink with us, but I cannot do so without knowing who I am befriending.’

‘You have a very odd way of going about befriending folk.’

‘I make myself useful. How do you do it?’

‘Much the same, I suppose.’ He brushed the front of his coat; the charts were still safely tucked away inside.

‘But this time I got here first. Come, we’re standing on the scene of the crime like two doves about to fornicate.’

He made to lead the way, but Caranthir held his ground.

‘No, I don’t think so. Name what you want, but I had business here and –’

‘Oh, but your business seems to have left you! And, by the way I saw it, they seemed not to have held you in very high regard.’

He narrowed his eyes, pursing his lips, and took a deep breath. Confident, theatrical, biased against sorcery. Prefers direct combat, carries himself as if he’s untouchable, and butts into other people’s business under noble pretences.

‘Who are you?’

‘I am called Nithral.’

‘Nithral – who?’

‘Ah, a genealogist, not a sorcerer! Or both? What business is my family of yours, O Nameless sorcerer?’

‘My name is Caranthir ar-Feiniel.’

‘Pleased to make you acquaintance, Caranthir of Feiniel’s house.’

The stranger bowed stiffly.

‘How did you guess that one would have used magic?’

‘Training.’

‘What training?’

‘The best,’ Nithral smiled. ‘Come, accept my apology for stealing your thunder against that louse and let’s get better acquainted!’

They ventured in the general direction of the _kirkyat_ tables.

‘They call me,’ the elf who’d taken him hostage said conspiratorially, ‘Nithral aep Yslinis. Like you, I would rather honour my mother than my father. Fathers are... dispensable. Mothers – irreplaceable!’

‘Charmed. That, however, is none of my business. Your request, I am yet to hear it. Unless inviting me to drink with you –’

‘Why,’ he leaned his thumbs through the loops on his pelisse, ‘are you so haughty?’

Caranthir was not being haughty, he was being rude, and he knew it very well. Adrenaline was yet to leave him, for starters, but something also told him that had these elves wished so, they would have thrown him out onto the street as well. He had noticed the complicity of the mixologist and the other guests nearby, who had observed the breaking up of the commotion as if it was nothing out of the ordinary at Cartouche. Some things were the same everywhere – some patrons were more important than others; and he now wanted to find out why.

‘I am not keen on undeserved familiarity,’ he shrugged.

The redhead shook his head. Into his hair had been braided several rows of bone and metal beads and in his right ear dangled a triskelion earring made of amber. He gave a roguish grin.

‘You and I are not familiar, but we could be, if you promised to put away the sparks and entertained me to an honest fight, blade to blade.’

‘There is nothing dishonest in the use of magic,’ Caranthir assessed him; he was bulkier, Caranthir was taller, though not overly. ‘Going from inviting me to a drink to offering me a duel – you do make friends easily, don’t you?’

‘I do. It’s not my fault I occasionally pick the undeserving ones. Where are you from, Caranthir ar-Feiniel? Your accent, it does not quite –’

‘Tilath na Buhne.’

‘Ah, a pretty place. Gorgeous on the eve of storms, especially if you’ve just moored. You’re a coastal bird then. What are you doing here? Academy? What’s your speciality?’

_No. Not the Academy._

‘I haven’t specialised,’ he replied shortly. ‘What is yours?’

‘Weaponry. Anything you can think of I can probably use better than you. Then again, that is to be expected – most mages don’t know a claymore from a rapier, and grasp the pommel as if it were a walking cane.’

Caranthir snorted.

‘You’d be a wet spot before you got within five meters of me.’

That Nithral did not laugh Caranthir out of the room at his outright lie only served to bolster his guess that the youth must have been shooting his mouth off and was probably not as worldly as he pretended to be. But devil knew – the sharp glint in his eyes looked real enough.

‘Ah! And magic is not dishonest at all, is it?’

‘Nothing that is in your natural proclivity is dishonest. But don’t worry, I wouldn’t require spells to put you on your arse, Nithral aep Yslinis.’

‘I knew I’d like you the moment I saw you. It’s a talent; I don’t even have to read minds.’

His new “friend” stared at him meaningfully.

‘What?’

‘Look, I need you for a game, alright?’

They had come to the big room at the front, where supposedly out-of-tune music and merriment ruled. Caranthir’s eyes drifted over to the _kirkyat_ tables. Everything clicked.

‘You mean you need me for cheating?’

‘It’s not cheating. It’s called being resourceful. There is nothing dishonest in making use of one’s natural proclivities, as you said.’

‘That’s your request?’

‘You take a peek, give me clues, and I’ll divine the winning moves.’

He groaned.

‘And who are we cheating?’

‘My comrade. If anything, it’s evening out the odds. Byrissen here is almost like you – he is our navigator. I don’t know how he does it, but he has managed to slip through every strategy of ours so far and comes out as the winner in the end every single time. It’s getting humiliating.’

‘Have you considered he might simply be that good?’

‘Yes. Many times. I’ve also considered his honourable mother, who is a psychoanalyst, a gifted one, so I am evening out the odds my own way now.’

‘What if he detects me?’

‘What? Are you that much of an amateur? Did I help out a lousy sorcerer?’

‘Wasn’t it a matter of honour and defence of harmony for you?’

‘It was. My honour is at stake at this table. I’ll scrub the deck on Naglfar until Saovine if I lose again.’

‘Why? Byrissen doesn’t like you, or what?’ Caranthir bit his tongue. ‘Did you say Naglfar?’

For this moment, and this moment only, something genuine and reverent overcame the elf who, in Caranthir’s eyes, would have otherwise lost out to every amateur of stage and performing arts.

‘She’s a beauty. A true marvel of engineering: the crown jewel of aethereal design. A knife in the dark, a shard of ice – the very one of the White Mariner and his Queen of Eternal Winter.’

Caranthir stared.

‘You’re a cadet?’

‘Lieutenant.’

‘With Dearg Ruadhri?’

‘In the navy, but yes.’

Caranthir’s eyes fell on the amber earring and he pinned it now for what it must have been – the wraith amulet. He looked at the redhead’s companions: an imposing bunch with sharp eyes and quick hands. All of them young elves, give or take several decades.

‘When was your first time off-world?’

Nithral did not answer, eyeing the state of the pieces on the board with the gambler’s sharp eye that delighted in the elegance of the game with self-abandonment that could not be faked.

‘What will it be, sorcerer who is not a sorcerer. Shall we play? I promise you, you’ll enjoy it.’

Caranthir thought about it: a debt was no laughing matter. He nodded, Nithral smiled, the beads in his hair glinting with infectious fun, and the gentlemen took a seat at the table.

\---//---

Several streets away in a dead end shaded by ivy an elf with sunburnt hair knelt before another, ill and frail one. The elder, who appeared to have fallen deep into thought, stirred at last when two cardinals alighted from the climbing vines.

‘Stand up. The fault for tonight lies with me.’

‘I should not have acted without consent, O Wise One. I should have asked for advice –’

‘You acted pragmatically and, ultimately, in our interests. If there is anything at all for which you can be faulted, it is for believing the son you and Feiniel have brought into this world could have ever belonged to you.’

Nibelug sighed; breathing alone appeared to hurt his lungs.

‘Children like him belong to Fate alone. Which really is to say, to those who presently imagine themselves her paramours and keepers.’

‘I understand.’

‘No, I don’t think you do. But you can be forgiven for that. If you truly understood, you would not hesitate to take back the life you’ve given, for the world in which you believe is not the same as the one of those to whom you’ve given this life in good faith.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lore:  
>  **Kisko** \- a neuroenhancing nootropic used to prepare the psyche's receptive horizon for learning through astral projection onto the Dreamlace Roads.  
>  **Mywnli** \- ideational entities that occupy a zone between things that "are" and things that "are not", or things that can be identified as life forms and things that cannot.  
>  **Dreamlace Roads** \- pathways through the multiverse where the nature of reality intersects in its infinite variety and is perceivable. Traversable for the Aen Saevherne through astral projection.  
>  **Golden Apples of the Alders** \- magical fruit, a derivative of the apples of Avalon; a popular concept in various mythologies, such as the golden apples of Hesperides, the pomegranate of Hades, and the apples of Otherworlds in Irish mythology.  
>  **Kirkyat** \- a popular abstract strategy game among the elves. Bearing some resemblance to hnefatafl.
> 
> Language:  
>  _Beáth táitneach!_ \- Enjoy your meal!  
>  _Beáth’tedd_ \- Mealtime (like wishing someone mahlzeit).  
>  _Que suecc's, Cnue’raidd?_ \- What's going on, Golden Fleece?  
>  _Feainne a’baeth_ \- Sun's kiss  
>  _Taide_ \- Grandpa
> 
> Constructive criticism & thoughts always welcome!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Crickets sang in the sweating night air. He fumbled with his belt and sighed, closing his eyes._
> 
> _‘It’s the daughter of a local dignitary, Ielwyn. A little girl. How would it reflect on our gracious leader, and on me, if we let the matter lie?’_
> 
> _‘You think there is honestly a chance she survived.’_
> 
> _‘I think that some, who did not deserve to, did.’_
> 
> _‘We do not know the size of the herd, its movement, or the extent of its territory. Here, we have the advantage, but out there... What are we hoping to find?’_
> 
> _The ice groans and crackles, and the northern lights flare. Deep under the glassy surface of the frozen lake that has cracked into a thousand or million or billion pieces – is it a lake? is it the sea itself? is all life wrapped in this cold, dark mirror? – ice and snow swirl like some arcane substance._
> 
> _‘Resolve the puzzle, little sparrowhawk, and you shall become your own master and from my hand you shall receive the entire world,’ the Queen says._

The air shimmers on the horizon.

They have taken refuge from the sun underneath a giant olive tree to pay their respects and to have a meal. The elders say that the Light Vein runs close to the surface here and nourishes this great tree – the only one of its kind for as far as the eye can see. It sits at an intersection and marks the end of the lands under the protection of the Alder King. It’s another unbearably hot day, yet in the tree’s shade it’s good and cool. Only the servants, whose tan skin seems to have become immune to the sun’s blaze, wait some way off by the caravan carts. The sentry up the tree keeps an eye on everything.

Cianánil crouches in burnt grass, nibbling a wedge of blue cheese, and eyes one of the apes with interest. He has a square head and legs curving outward, thick like a plough harness on a workhorse. Hairy legs too, but the hair is not like a horse’s; it is dark, curly and unkempt, and patchy. It looks a little like a mutt hit with boiling water when attempting to steal fried perch off the stove. The girl wrinkles her nose. Her aunt doesn’t like her servants and she isn’t nice to them. Back at home, Cianánil has many pets and she loves all of them dearly; she combs and washes them, and feeds them sweet vittles when father is not looking. But she cannot love this one.

This one hasn’t been allowed to set down the chest he is carrying; this one is being punished. When will he tire? He stands quietly like a menhir in the blazing sun, thin trails of sweat trickling down his neck and wetting the neckline. He is hairy there too. Why must he be so ugly – this ape-man who carries Cianánil’s toy-chest. All other animals glow with life when they exert themselves, yet not this one. This one is lazy and weak and ugly, and for that he is being punished, and the little elf pities him.

She breaks off a piece of blue cheese, glances over her shoulder at the sentry relaxing in the tree, and throws it to the servant, in case he is hungry. He does nothing, his little dark eyes fixed on the horizon where the sultry air shimmers.

‘That’s a mirage, stupid! There is no cheese over there.’

He doesn’t react. He stands like a stone, hauling the little elf’s chest of toys on his back.

The girl rolls her eyes.

‘Suit yourself.’

They appear.

A sudden gust sweeps across the grassy plains, bringing dust and debris, and the rumbling of dozens of hooves striking the ground in its wake. Cianánil hears her aunt scream, and turns. Their company travels light – these paths by the borders are safe, father always says. Yet the Eyien appear like phantoms out of the shimmering air on the horizon – swift and terrible in their beauty – and chaos swipes its palm over the olive tree and the travellers underneath it. Dust swirls in the air, creating a billowing cloud, and an arrow shoots past the little elf’s cheek, striking home in the neck of a servant trying to run, yet missing the dappled grey Eyien by a hair’s breadth. The unicorn vanishes at the last moment and Cianánil lives a moment longer. She has never seen unicorns up close before. She doesn’t understand: her mind is being pierced by a screeching, strangling sound. Her aunt stumbles on her way up the gnarled trunk of the olive tree. One of the servants grabs her calf. Falling, her skull is instantly crushed beneath the terrifying creature’s hooves.

Her eyes are watering, she is evading shapes that appear and disappear in the great brown cloud, and the roar of the wind and the thudding of hooves melds into a cacophony of terror inside her mind just before she falls. Their steward, speared from gut to shoulder, hangs limply from the crimson-glinting horn of the dappled grey who stands upright on its hind legs as no horse could ever do. The skin of the elf shrivels strangely, as if he is drying up before the child’s eyes. Something knocks her in the spine and she feels a pair of strong, hairy arms close around her.

The little elf sees no more.

\---//---

The silver tray shone in moonlight like Shiadhal’s mirror of Reason.

The air in the garden was stale and still, weighed down by the saccharine aroma of roses. Somewhere in the crowns of trees, a nightingale trilled. He poured, and closed his eyes against the vertigo. The heat of the summer night was oppressing and exhausting. He had to struggle to let it in: heat was good, all good creatures lived off of the warmth of white stars. _Warmth... magic and life... a mother’s womb..._

_The ice groans and crackles, and the northern lights flare._

_Deep under the glassy surface of the frozen lake that has cracked into a thousand or million or billion pieces – is it a lake? is it the sea itself? is all life wrapped in this cold, dark mirror? – ice and snow swirl like some arcane substance._

_‘Resolve the puzzle, little sparrowhawk, and you shall become your own master and from my hand you shall receive the entire world,’ the Queen says. ‘No more kisses though,’ she smiles, ‘or else I should kiss you to death.’_

The glass slipped through his fingers and shattered on the stones.

He clutched the ruby necklace for reassurance and caught sight of a pair of eyes peering at him from the darkness of the myrtle bushes. Rats! Eating, nibbling, and growing under the shade of the White Alder Tree. The servant disappeared instantly. He stared at the shards at his feet, glinting in moonlight. In the deadly frost that pierces both hearts and minds, and slumbers in the frozen lake, lies his eternity. Eredin poured another glass, grabbed it successfully this time, and marched toward the patio where his guests would have been instructed to wait for his arrival.

_‘The whole world, Eredin.’_

_She is beautiful and terrible and perfect as untouched snow. He wants to please her and the Alder King. Every night he comes to her palace and stands on the frozen lake, wishing desperately he could see the answer in the shards of ice. But he cannot figure it out._

_She looks at him with pity._

_‘Such promise, and so little substance.’_

_He wants to sink through the ice, hide, set the shards in place by force so the answer will reveal itself. It never happens. He won’t be released. He is told he is meant for different things. On the day the Queen disappears, the ice on the lake melts._

_The shards in his heart and eyes dig deeper._

‘You’ve chosen an ill time. My nights are still my own.’

The elf who had been contemplating the glass catfish in the slowly flowing fountain emerged from his reverie and bowed deeply.

_As he should._

‘Commander.’

‘Aramil.’

‘Forgive my intrusion. I would have waited, except in the light of your recent assignment the information –’ the elf paused at the sight of him. ‘I am late in more ways than one, then?’

Eredin sat down in one of the tall garden chairs in the middle of a mosaic-floored patio that depicted nymphs by the riverside. He rested his drink and his sore elbow on the table, removed the lid of a small ceramic bowl, and started filling his pipe with crushed pipe leaf.

‘Do you not require dressing for that wound?’

‘Later,’ he lit the pipe, drops of blood hitting the nymphs’ breasts on the mosaic. ‘Carry on, Aramil. I feel like you were about to share something important with me.’

The military’s prime artificer raised an eyebrow and took a seat.

‘Our _Elle_ , as you’re aware, is not well,’ he began. ‘The severity of loss weighs upon him heavily. It would not be an exaggeration to call it a psychic wound.’

Eredin took a deep puff, let his head fall back, and exhaled through his nostrils.

‘I’ve found out enough to ascertain that Auberon’s ailment is most likely to blame for the increasing magical instabilities along our borders: the architectural failings of the teleportation pathways, the fragility of the barrier spells, the wormholes and natural disasters –’

The unicorn’s words returned to him:

_‘What do we care about your stupid domes? You do it to yourselves.’_

He smacked the table and the vodka in the glass spilled.

‘Isn’t it curious, Aramil, that neither Auberon, nor any of the councillors, has deemed it necessary to inform the High Command of any of this?’ smoke hung above the commander’s face. ‘I find it terribly interesting. More interesting, ultimately, than our _Elle_ ’s health. ’

‘Likely very few are aware.’

‘And why is that? When did questions that concern the safety of our people become a private matter for the chosen few – arcane or not?’

‘It may be that they have deemed it necessary to withhold the information for fear of sending the wrong message to the nobility.’

‘Who has deemed it necessary?’

‘The archimago.’

Eredin snorted, grinned, and drank. It burned pleasantly.

‘Of course he has.’

‘It seems they have worked out a temporary solution – the head Sage and Auberon. Avallac’h frequently meets with the _Elle_ for this reason.’

‘While the rest of us are left to face the consequences of Auberon’s weakness without any hope of putting an end to these problems on our own. All because admitting to weakness would mean having to come to compromises with one’s rivals.’

Aramil did not respond at once. The underlying tensions within the informal triumvirate that ruled the world of the Alders were known to most who stood close enough.

‘Perhaps the nature of the problem is not entirely reversible,’ he said at last. ‘Perhaps they are simply seeking to ease and postpone the inevitable breakdown of the connection between the ruler and the realm.’

Eredin glared at the artificer. You could cut the irritation in the air.

‘The ruler and the land are one. It’s a pretty metaphor. The Sages’ riddle, nothing more.’

Aramil shrugged.

‘It’s not my forte. Yet, much changed with the Queen’s departure after all.’

_The Hunt flies within black clouds, and the storm whistles and roars as in old ballads. The frost from between the stars falls off the Queen’s shoulders. There is no escape from it. Truth is a shard of ice. Truth is in decay and demise._

The leader of the Red Riders sucked on his pipe and gazed into the gently falling water streams in a three-levelled fountain that imitated the Three Tears in the Svayeti Mountains. The light of the moon lent the bare alabaster skin of his chest a plum-blue hue that darkened around the large bruise on his side, in the centre of which a shallow, angular eye slowly oozed fierce vermillion. He would get even for this slight.

‘You bring most interesting news, Aramil,’ he said. ‘One day you will have to divulge to me the secret of your resourcefulness.’

‘I do what I do to serve the realm and the _Elle_ ,’ the elf bowed his head curtly. ‘I trust you to take action in the interests of all of us.’

‘Never doubt that I will,’ Eredin set the pipe aside. ‘As you can see, I have not been idle. At this rate I will miss the best of our beginning opera season.’

‘The word is the new rendition of the Ring cycle is exceptionally life-like.’

‘Auberon cannot stand this one, did you know?’

Aramil smiled politely. Eredin snapped his fingers and a small figure appeared, bringing the bottle in which sloshed the translucent moonshine.

‘The matter on the Yarn Lines took us beyond our lands.’

‘Yes? I thought I saw some of your regulars on my way here. Near the Cartouche.’

‘That’s because I was not at Aedd Aëte as the commander of Dearg Ruadhri. There’s this new programme – meant to raise morale and inspire the young. They want more experienced officers to conduct smaller scale missions with new units. Not a terrible idea, all in all.’

‘You took a new unit beyond the borders? A hybrid one, I hope?’

‘A regular cavalry detachment. Ielwyn’s.’

‘Do tell.’

\---//---

His cavalry detachment had entered the sleeping town of Aedd Aëte at daybreak. Due to the arcane nature of the problem along the borders he had wished to personally investigate, they had chosen conventional means of travel for the last leg of their journey across the slanting hills and valleys. Though the sun had burned the outskirts to a crisp, the long ride had suited Eredin, for he appreciated the opportunity to take in the moods of the land he had fought over and come to love. How can you rule a land if you do not walk its every path? Indeed, he did not love the province any less for its remoteness and wilderness, but the unimaginative airs and false modesty of its inhabitants made him detest it in anything but small doses.

From the start, he had intended to keep the meeting with the local provost short and to the point, to gather information and notify the locals of their presence. Except, it turned out that the provost had left the town on urgent business not two days past. The blushing girl who informed Eredin of the situation on the steps of the provost’s household had proceeded to show him and his second-in-command indoors, where the elves sat to wait in one of those falsely modest atriums that was re-decorated as often as possible according to hearsay about the latest fashions in the capital. Nearly until noon they had waited, which was when the lord of the house had finally returned, distraught and grey-faced. Without a word, he had fallen on his knees before the commander and wept, and Eredin, who had witnessed this sight too many times, had graciously turned away his head and waited some more.

_‘What was your daughter’s name?’_

_‘Cianánil._ ’

Purple and red streaks wound round the horizon while small fires sprung to life between the upturned, wind-ravaged carts. There had been no signs of late summer storms for over a fortnight and the earth under their feet radiated heat, scattering itself into the stray wind a palmful of dusty soil at a time.

‘And there won’t be any rain! Until that snake’s piss owns up to his embezzlements, returns my lizard-milk saucers, and makes me a formal apology!’

‘Your lack of co-operation impedes the Commander’s investigation.’

‘Me!?’ the hydrologist’s cheeks had reddened. ‘It’s the state of the climate of the entire realm! I handle the micro-climate here, which means that right now there is only so much I can do before these anomalies stop. Last time I tried to intervene, it rained cats. Splat, splat, splat – right at the picnic table! Splat! Can you imagine? You cannot, you’re a soldier; what’s a little macabre stuff to you? Well, go cut the skies open with that sword of yours then, please! Why are _you_ here anyway, I don’t understand? But I do not care. I do not! The weather is not my fault, and may that little shit, the provost, contract a red diarrhoea. He deserves it. As for you, gentlemen: it is summer, it’s warm. You can handle it. Long live our gracious _Elle_ , and so on.’

The wizard had slammed the door in Ielwyn’s face. So much for help with the atmospheric conditions to ease the way of their operation. Eredin, whose time was being mercilessly wasted, had been of half the mind to order the door kicked down before it had occurred to him that this was probably what the hydrologist wanted in the first place – for the commander to get himself involved in a second local squabble already. Ordinary folk pleaded, the nobles bribed and enticed, and mages – they provoked you. Because that’s what the Province was – a pool of endless complaints seeking an arbiter.

‘ _Bloede_ dribble artist,’ Ielwyn, his second-in-command, swore under his breath by his side, wiping the sweat off his brow.

‘We will be missing this heat soon enough.’

‘You’ve reached a decision?’

‘I have.’

Seated among his men, Eredin kept an eye on the youth who had ridden along to show them the way. He had not moved from his chosen spot underneath the tree for quite a while. Where he had crouched, the grass had grown taller and lusher than anywhere else on the sun-burnt ground his detachment had covered today. There were several such miraculous spots underneath the ancient olive tree.

_Life thrives the strongest where death hovers nearest._

Finishing his meal, Eredin nodded to Ielwyn to call the youth over.

‘Lord?’

‘At dawn, you will ride back. You will tell the provost to ready a company with trackers, who will follow us beyond the borders three days from tomorrow. Unless one of my men comes bearing word first.’

‘Yes, Lord. Does this – does this mean you will hunt for the escapees then?’

‘Only madmen chase after the departed.’

A grieving mind was a broken one. It would not have been generous of him to touch upon the reasons the provost’s impression of what had occurred had been senseless. Unarmed servants – in their house for who knows how many generations – arranging an uprising, slaughtering the entire company, taking hostages, and leaving behind fewer tracks than the stallions of the Queen of Winter upon sea ice? In its trashing, a grieving mind sought a target – any target other than itself. Especially if the grief was a parent’s. Eredin had seen far better _elle_ fall prey to it.

Or the provost was just inexperienced.

Or stupid.

‘Take a seat,’ he said finally, and the youth hastened to comply, carefully picking his place in-between the elves around the fire. ‘Did you know anyone in that caravan well?’

‘Not really, Lord. The provost’s sister and daughter – a little, from afar.’

‘What were you doing back there? Were you saying your prayers for them? Or were you vowing vengeance? On whom, I wonder.’

‘I – I think it simply felt very peaceful, Lord,’ the youth hesitated. ‘As if this day was already naught but a distant memory.’

_A pacifist. Wonderful._

‘Cemeteries, as the cliché goes, tend to stir up such sentiments. The deceased are, after all, still nearby.’

He looked at the provincial closely. His words seemed to discomfort the youth. Well, if mere thought of death, especially such death as had been delivered here, was becoming unfamiliar and uncomfortable to the young then he could congratulate himself. Impressive, this illusion of peace they had woven.

‘Are you clever?’

‘Lord?’

‘I do not mean your schooling. Truth lies in the moment; what’s written down or told after is poetry. Fairy tales. I mean, are you good at paying attention?’

‘I – I’d say so, Lord. Yes.’

‘You were with the provost’s company when you first came upon this site. He believes this is the handiwork of his sister’s servants and hopes, in the absence of bodies and horses, that his daughter may have survived the slaughter. As she has not turned up yet, it must be that the escaped servants took her with them. I won’t bother you with what I think about all this but I concede that there are, indeed, signs of a struggle to be found, though not more than that. You’ve seen all of this twice now. I am interested in hearing what you think. What is wrong in this picture? I’m listening.’

And the boy thought. Steam rising from his ears.

Not like some cadets Eredin had seen and served with, who had sufficiently reasonable answers prepared for everything but who put on airs of effort regardless – the careerists. Or the ones who didn’t need to recount anything, for they were naturally talented, the material every commander wished he could work with, irrespective of their personality. This provincial nobody worked on it, eager to prove himself out of gratitude for the attention. When Eredin asked, elves answered him. He instilled in them the sense that much depended on their answers at all times. It was the ones like this youth who proved most loyal and most persistent in a time of need, for they came from nothing and aspired only to get through, guided by the gentle image of their days of distress once again becoming the distant past.

He smiled.

‘The grass...’

‘What was that?’

‘Is it the grass, Lord? You asked me – I mean, well, the land aches for rain, yet here it has grown tall as if Dana herself has blessed this place. It’s the only thing I could –’

‘That’s only half the answer. This place sits on a magical intersection. Nature always thrives at such places.’

‘Dana’s children have blessed this land,’ Ielwyn drawled over his cup impatiently. ‘With their blood and flesh, no less. Have your elders never told you about the ways of the Eyien?’

‘They have, Sir, but what –’

‘Being pierced by a unicorn’s horn is quite different from being skewered on a spear, would you believe it or not. Though painters rarely wish to depict what comes after,’ Ielwyn glared at the youth, then at Eredin. ‘Your provost hopes in vain.’

‘Such young and vibrant grass,’ Eredin continued, ‘grows swiftly and briefly, and sprouts only out of the recent carcasses of living beings. What you see here are the fleeting epitaphs to those who breathed their last in direct confrontation with time. You felt it first-hand there, under the tree. In another day or so, this too shall vanish.’

The boy’s eyes widened like brass discs but he kept quiet. Eredin stoked the fire and a puff of brightly sparks took off against the blinking stars in the soughing summer night.

‘You found the place untouched, because such is the nature of these magnificent beings. Time does not announce itself. And the Eyien are temporal beings in many senses of the word. A wound from a unicorn’s horn knows no cure for it is an injury inflicted by time itself. The body decays at an astonishing speed. Especially in our sphere. Perhaps the Light Vein that surfaces here aided along as well – after all, they say the river of life runs forever in a circle. Around the entire world.’

_So many worlds... bound by the same tether._

‘They’re dead.’

‘Long dead.’

‘Everyone?’

‘We’ll see.’

‘Then, Lord, should I tell them –’

‘You will say only what I have ordered you to say,’ he pointed the glowing stick at the youth. ‘Is that clear?’

‘Yes, Lord.’

‘Good,’ he stood and walked around the fire to where the youth sat. He lay his hand on the boy’s shoulder and he looked up. ‘I suggest you get some rest. You will not see any Eyien tonight. We are with you.’

He headed further into the field and away from the light of their fires, melding seamlessly into the shadows. Crickets sang in the sweating night air. He fumbled with his belt and sighed, closing his eyes.

Footsteps. Then, expectant silence.

‘It’s the daughter of a local dignitary, Ielwyn. A little girl. How would it reflect on our gracious leader, and on me, if we let the matter lie?’

‘You think there is honestly a chance she survived.’

‘I think that some, who did not deserve to, did.’

‘We do not know the size of the herd, its movement, or the extent of its territory. Here, we have the advantage, but out there... What are we hoping to find?’

\---//---

‘It is bad practice to allow _dh’oine_ to kill elves without consequence.’

Eredin drank and thought. The blood on the wound had coagulated.

‘Eyien.’

‘What?’

‘The herd of Eyien killed these elves.’

The commander frowned, then gave a broad smile.

‘Yes. As I was saying. However, you know what happens to the _dh’oine_ under their influence. Their conditioning gives way, they go into rage, lose control of themselves. Give in to the murderous desire we’ve squashed out of them.’

Aramil nodded. He had become very quiet for some reason. Eredin poured him a glass.

‘Of course, this never happens with the ones we’ve brought from _Sidhe_. The mental blocks that you place in their heads at Myr are very effective, I have to give it to you.’

‘They have to be. We cannot risk losing anyone to carelessness.’

Eredin didn’t comment further: it had been precisely the poor executive capacity of provincial dignitaries that had become the centrepiece of his concerns in the area. They had issued warnings to all externally bordering provinces as early as Imbaelk. The provost had had ample time to prepare the farmers, travellers, and ensure the protection of the people.

‘We picked up the tracks of the stolen steeds eventually, but lost the trail of the unicorns around the same time.’

‘They were shielding the surviving _dh’oine_ , do you think?’

‘Every barb in our arses is a delight to them.’

\---//---

They were being watched.

A hostile presence wound around the ash and the silver fir, weighing down upon the elves from the crowns of old beech trees and tangling itself around the legs of their horses as they passed furtively through the bramble thickets, nettles, and blackberry bushes. They had felt its gaze ever since they had entered the ravine-ravaged woodland at the foot of the mountains. It did not show itself, but made itself known in the surprising chill in the air, which stifled the natural, mouldy smells of the wild forest and made their mares skittish and their stallions ill-tempered.

None of it seemed to bear any effect on their leader, who strode ahead of the rest along with the scouts, and whose silver black navigated the untouched paths of the ancient forest smoothly and without hesitance, controlled by the rider’s sensitive hand. So attuned to each other were the rider and the mount that it was difficult to tell who led whom at times, and this connection – the product of years of disciplined training and the commander’s talent with animals – proved vital. The forest around them grew in a labyrinthine fashion, deceptively filling both the crags and the steep edges of the ravines that criss-crossed the uneven ground. As if a race of giants had dragged their great, iron-pronged batons before the craggy mountain range in an attempt to secure it with a spike-filled moat. Every once in a while, Eredin would mutter quietly to his steed and exchange signals with his company before deciding upon the correct route. The magical trace of the unicorns’ presence had disappeared long ago, but the path the slaves had taken was too self-assured, too familiar with the landscape.

By the evening, the commander’s mood had soured. He preferred it infinitely more when there was challenge and glory to be found in reward for his toil. Avoiding shame had never had the same flavour. He envied his younger subordinates, most of whom were still tickled by the idea of honour and duty for its own sake, and for whose sake it was worth it to maintain hope in implausible outcomes.

Eredin pulled on the reins suddenly and lifted his hand.

 _‘Sgowtiaede!_ ’

Two horsemen approached from behind.

The forest was thinning out before them and the ground rose. Running water could be heard in the distance. A boon for any animal – whether lost or on the run. Yet the tracks took a sharp turn left here, heading deeper into the underbrush. If the _dh’oine_ didn’t even think of watering their horses after a long day’s ride then there must have been a destination that was close by and promised shelter, water, and more. Eredin looked around wildly. _Do they hide underground, or what?_ He left Ielwyn to lead the riders to the water while the three of them headed in the opposite direction, following the tracks and cutting through the underbrush that had clearly been trampled on already.

It wasn’t long before they came across a descending clearing. Within the hollow towered a single, giant oak. The span of its branches was such that the oak’s canopy covered almost the entire clearing, except for the perfectly symmetrical circle onto which shone the last light of the day from above the treeline. The trail they had been following since the plains ended here.

_‘Gwarcheid eis arainne?_

‘ _Feindiwn’en ceathwe neidr._ _Va veloë_ _!_ ’

Snowflakes danced in the faintly lit air before his cold, green eyes. He lifted his head: the setting sun had begun casting its net of fuchsia and amethyst into the sky that that was blue and clear, like a tear. He led his horse around the invisible boundary, once to the left, then to the right. No rainbow to be seen from here. Eredin frowned. He spurred his horse forward and stretched out his hand toward the circle of light.

_‘Ysgarthiad!’_

The air inside the border of light was mortally cold.

_Wrapped in white fur of ermine, she stands in the nose of a long sleigh drawn by eight horses in silver harness, all pure white as sunlit snow. All else disgusts her._

_‘You’re a precious boy,’ she says. ‘Would you like to ride with me?’_

_He nods._

_‘Crawl under my coat then, so the cold won’t snap your nose off.’_

_She takes him up in the sleigh beside her and he sinks in soft furs as in a snowdrift, and the sleigh takes off. She admires herself in a mirror set in white frost that never melts. On her chest lies a necklace containing precious stones that shine like rubies. The wind moans around them, the snow whirls, and the sleigh flies along with eight white horses at its nose. With him and the Queen of Winter. The Queen of the Alders._

_‘Are you still cold?’ she asks and kisses him on the forehead, brushing his dark hair. The kiss is colder than ice. He feels it right down to his heart and for a moment, he feels as if he were dying, but only for a moment. Soon, he no longer notices the cold._

_They fly over forests and lakes, over many lands and great rivers flowing into the world sea. Wolves howl and black crows scream as they skim across glittering snow. She tells him about the eternal hoarfrost between the stars. She tells him of the thrill of the hunt, of the joyrides with mortal souls in tow, of frenzied races across the heavens unto the end of the world, unto the very end of existence, unto eternity._

_Her mirror flashes in her hand and all who gaze in it lose their appetite for mortal life. They step onto her long sleigh and shall never know peace again._

_She kisses him once more and he falls asleep at her feet._

_He doesn’t see how blood flows from the arteries of her eight white horses and stains the white fur of ermine on her shoulders, or how the unicorn shatters her mirror, or how she collects as many shards as she can, though they pierce the skin of her hands. He doesn’t see how the shards that shatter into a thousand or million or billion pieces fall and hit the elves’ hearts and turn them into ice._

_Eredin sleeps as the glass of Shiadhal’s mirror pricks him._

He woke to the dance of snowflakes on his eyelids.

They had made camp by the riverside under the sickle of a crescent moon. He didn’t remember striding through the perimeter, ignoring the questioning looks from the night guards. Quietly, through the underbrush, toward the clearing, where the great oak stood, surrounded by a circle of moonlight in which floated the powdered snow _._ He breathed in deeply and smelled nothing. The eternal summer of their lands held on here only by feeble strings.

_‘Give of yourself.’_

The elf began shifting out of his boots. A light breeze in an otherwise very quiet night shook the crowns of the lesser trees around the oak. He pulled the shirt off his back and let his breeches drop.

_‘Just trust in that boiling blood of yours and remember: only those who give are given.’_

In the days that followed their tribe’s arrival through the Gate of Time, Sages had done a lot of negotiating with the spirits of this world – _mywnli_ , as they were called. Not alive nor dead, entirely indifferent to their affairs, and yet, they could be offended, for with the arrival of the _elle_ new powers had gained foothold in the sphere. New gods. With the help of the Eyien, they had subdued these strange powers and made them tolerant and receptive toward the magic of the Alders. Toward their essence. To put it simply, Dana’s children had infiltrated the nature of the sphere and made it answer and change its rules when those who had the power appealed to it. Liaising with the gods – that was how many barbaric races called such practices. They, of course, didn’t know much about the gods, nor about the nature of the living world, but in the end that hardly interested Eredin. All that mattered to him was that his actions would have the desired effect upon the world, and that for his efforts he would be granted due rewards.

He stepped through the wall of moonlight and ice. The frost gnashed its teeth, saw through his soul, and receded – like knew like.

Within the circle it rained hard. The freezing shower hit his broad shoulders like tiny metal links in his impenetrable chain mail, the protection of which he had had to forsake in order to approach the threshold of the mountain guardian. Thunder broke against the peaks above and lightning flashed. It had pierced the great oak several times; something that had gone unnoticed from the outside. This was the world inside their world: once you stripped away the beauty, Chaos reigned.

The commander dropped on his knees, into the muddy slush before the wounded tree, and pressed his head against the trunk. The cold of the void greeted him.

_Herian, hunter and punisher of wicked souls..._

Can frost kill a tree? A mighty oak in the heart of the forest? An ancient alder – the White Alder Tree itself?

Of course it can.

... _grant your daughters and sons their fervent rage and just vengeance..._

Should a tree freeze through, to its pulsing core, it will die. In severe, snowless winters, it’s the young that perish first, for they do not yet know how to conceal their burning hearts. To grow, to feed, to produce offspring – a tree expends a lot of heat and energy to do so. When winter comes, trees’ hearts fall silent. They don the likeness of death in order to protect themselves from the frost. They refuse to eat, they will stop wasting strength on reproduction. They will stop growing and sink into deep sleep, having thrown off their leaves so the rotting blanket on the ground could give them warmth and protect their tender roots. Meanwhile, the tree’s heart survives inside its thick, bittersweet sap that guards the memories of the forest. Except, when a tree slumbers like this, small creatures can make their nests in-between its roots. The older the tree, the more likely it is that weaker beings will make use of its strength. Sometimes it is they that gnaw through the alder’s roots and kill it. And the tree won’t even know until it awakens again, when winter goes and spring comes.

_...let them drink from your chalice of madness and truth._

Something bright flashed between the trees, and a familiar promise of pain crept near. Thunder bellowed and chaos rejoiced. He looked up and saw the rainbow serpent stretching in the sky. The bridge of the Eyien. He knew now in which direction they had to go next.

_‘Stand up, barbarian!’_

Eredin smiled. Slowly, he pulled his hands free from the frozen trunk of the tree, and rose. His long, black hair clung to his neck and back like tails of dark lightning onto fresh snow. Through the curtain of rain, he met eyes with a fully grown dapple grey unicorn who stood at the edge of the clearing.

_‘Crude creature of chaos. Where are your manners?’_

Should one ever have been shown the privilege of meeting a unicorn face to face, one had to be ready to bow low in respect and gratitude. Once upon a time it had been so.

Eredin did not bow. He simply thought:

_‘I’ve been looking for you.’_

The unicorn neighed – laughed, rather. Luminous forms moved between the trees. Its brothers and sisters.

 _‘We know. We don’t want you here. We want you down there,’_ it scraped the ground with its hoof, lowering its head and pointing its menacing horn toward the elf. _‘We want you gone.’_

 _‘I’ll go. When I decide so. With answers. Or your head,’_ the beast took a couple of quick steps and Eredin started, pulling into half-crouch. That same mocking laughter echoed in his head again. _‘What have you done with the barriers?’_

_‘What do we care about your stupid domes? You do it to yourselves. Stupid little Hawk.’_

_‘And the dh’oine?’_

The creature snorted angrily. It felt youthful, its life energy brimming with righteousness, though it was ridiculous to talk about “age” when it came to these beasts. Eredin listened, focusing with all his might on ignoring the downpour and the thunder, and the interference the unicorn’s telepathy caused. He listened instinctively for the near soundless approach of his warriors beyond the perimeter, but still prepared himself to bolt, low and swift and at exactly the right moment, should the creature decide upon its course of attack.

 _‘You carry the stench of death. You decay. You wither. You devour the world you hold captive, barbarian,’_ it took a step closer. _‘Mad Alder King. Impotent Alder King. Lonely Alder King. Corpses!’_

He could see them clearly now: the herd.

‘Mirror-mirror on the wall,’ he whispered, focusing on the black equine eyes in which galaxies twirled, ‘who is true and who is false?’

Giving a loud neigh the unicorn charged and rammed itself, horn-first, into the oak’s twisted body. Its powerful shoulder kicked Eredin from his feet and he could hear the tree groaning as the dapple grey twisted its neck wildly about in rage even before he had hit the ground, but the elf had no time to pay attention. There was no such thing as a “stuck unicorn”. He scrambled forward on his hands and knees, acutely aware of the snapping of branches, the heavy thudding of hooves, and the screeching inside his head. From the cold and the rain and the lightning under the rainbow serpent’s watchful gaze, he fell through to the other side where late summer still held on, and arrows hissed under the crescent moon.

The Eyien, for whom the elven arrows had been intended, had vanished.

\---//---

‘A very dull, dissatisfying affair,’ Eredin sighed, glaring at Aramil. ‘You can’t fight them properly in heavily wooded areas. So you ambush them, or bar yourself in with polearms and archers at the ready and carry on.’

He held the artificer’s gaze, looking for signs of disapproval, but found nothing. Only mild amusement, which had nothing to do with his leadership.

‘In any case,’ he threw his head back and closed his eyes. ‘We found what we had been looking for soon after.’

‘Did the portal hold?’

‘It did. The portalist didn’t.’

\---//---

‘Is this his first time, or what?’ he nodded toward the portalist retching near the cliff’s edge.

‘No,’ Ielwyn replied. ‘You saw how he handled the co-ordinates and securing that pathway despite the conditions. An expert, but still, a civilian at heart – from Gaeth an Gyre. Hasn’t gotten a hang of the, eh, experiential side of it yet.’

‘For how long?’

‘Four, maybe five _saovine._ ’

‘Bah! Theoreticians,’ he rode up to the portalist and the elves supporting him. ‘Are we ready to carry on?’

‘Yes, commander, it’s just a little – a little –’

Evidently, he was not quite there yet. Not for the first time did Eredin catch himself upon missing his regular unit.

‘For your own sake, I suggest you get it all out. We will be in dire need of your skills again when we have to leave,’ he nodded toward the plateau around a natural spring that surfaced between the rocks, high above the forests. ‘Herian may favour us for now, but giving ourselves wings is our business and ours alone.’

The bridge of the Eyien – it was how those fond of euphemisms called it; meaning children, magicians, and those of a poetic disposition. Effectively, for Eredin’s purposes, it was a tracing beacon which revealed itself when you peeled off several layers of powerful terrestrial illusions. That’s why it was only useful beyond the borders of their lands, where the conditions of reality were less stable. _Ceathwe neidr_ was known to appear at potent intersections of magic, or as a result of the powerful wielding the primeval force. Unicorns, those wondrous, monstrous incarnations of magic, were often trailed by the rainbow serpent for this very reason.

‘ _Eyien are very shy by nature. Even those in a state – I will not say emotion – we would call “rage.” The trick is not so much in killing the being, but in binding it and its wild talent. Killing should be considered a last resort.’_

And they said that nothing ever changed.

Adjusting his steed’s step on the narrow mountain path, Eredin recalled the unworldly beauty of the moment when rainbows had cut through the billowing red clouds above the gorge, where dust swirled around horses and unicorns, above a land strewn with bodies – elven and equine. In some religions across the Spiral, rainbows symbolised hope. The only hope for them on that day had been a swift death. Mangled, hacked apart, crushed inside their armour and deformed by magic, those children of Dana who could still witness the _ceathwe neidr_ on the Path to Starlight were well on their way to becoming unrecognisable corpses. The stench of burning flesh arose once their mages’ deluge of lightning struck. When the Sages lowered the web that had corralled their unfairly advantaged but unsuspecting enemy en masse, in return for their betrayal, the smell spread across the northern steppe. Rainbows that had touched the Path to Starlight hung in the air for twenty one days.

The Alder Folk never expanded further north, in commemoration of that day.

_Another policy that should be reassessed._

Euphemistically then, it was said that if you followed the bridge of the Eyien to the place where it touched the ground, you would discover what your heart desired the most at that moment. It was how Auberon and Shiadhal had first come to the heart of where now lay Tir ná Lia.

_Do I not want it badly enough? Do I not want to find you, Cianánil of Aedd Aëte? No, I admit that I do not care nearly as much as I care about avenging the fallen. Including you, sweet Cianánil._

Ever since the days of strife and vengeance, nothing but death awaited the _elle_ who ventured in search of the end of the rainbow. And one could be met by death, or one could come carrying it.

The cavern, which should have been the commander’s heart’s desire at this moment, was not even particularly well-hidden. It wormed its way inside the mountain from between two boulders: one whole, one cracked from a landslide. Little grew at this altitude that could have shielded the entrance. A second pathway that could not be seen from the ascent led down the mountain side nearby: ancient stone steps that were climbable with a light load at best. From the prints around the area, it was clear at once that the inhabitants possessed peace of mind in their daily activities. From the number of prints though, one could assume the hideout had become a vacation retreat for a whole community. The horsemen left their mounts and approached in total silence, bitter wind in their faces.

The antechamber was high enough for an elf to stand in it without bending his back. In fact, one stood there already.

Ielwyn felt his blood warming.

‘How are you able to live with yourself?’

The elf reacted at once, a long shiv jumping into his hand upon turning, but Ielwyn was faster still. He cut the sentry cleanly on the left, under the ribcage, and the latter stumbled into the faintly glowing fire bed, kicking over the soup pot. With the drawing of sabres, as elven warriors spilled into the antechamber, a general ruckus erupted in-between the walls of the cavern. Small, hunched shadows slipped away from them to the back and a hollow boom resounded and rolled from front to back, picking up the rattling of various objects and voices on its way. Screams followed – from rather far down by the sound of it.

‘How many of them are there?’

‘Let’s see. You five, with me! Keep to the shadows, they can’t see for shit.’

‘Vermin!’

‘No, please! Don’t!’

‘Stay still, ringpiece,’ Ielwyn gave the elf’s ribs a kick, holding him at sword point.

‘They’re unarmed. They’re not dangerous to you –’

The blade drew blood under the elf’s chin. ‘You, abolitionists, would let your dogs chew your arms off if they made eyes at you for long enough.’

‘ _Wedd a’elle_...’ 

Ielwyn shouted down the cavern. Eredin, who had watched things unfold so far, stopped by the slumbering firebed. He picked up the shiv the elf had dropped and examined it.

‘You’re from these parts, aren’t you?’ he said and Ielwyn dragged the man on his feet. He had worn his light gambeson wide open and the wound did not look nice. ‘Show us around.’

It got very dark as they left the entrance behind. Ielwyn led the captive – Beliran he called himself – in front of them and the elf stumbled a few times over freshly maimed bodies that appeared in the flickering, orange glow of the torches and stone-carved fire basins. Lining the stone walls and stalagmites was a mess of personal belongings – most rather primitive-looking, of bone, wood, and stone, but not all. Small things, like combs, shears, shirts, sacks of water and cups – of elven make. As they proceeded down the narrowing corridor it got brighter. And in the last chamber that opened, unexpectedly large, it was very bright indeed.

The chamber rose high, disappearing into the mountain’s throat above a circle of fire. The inhabitants numbered no more than twenty five: some old, some young, and some – tiny. Surrounded and indeed unarmed, though not for the lack of items to defend oneself with. It was difficult to say who looked more surprised: the elven warriors or human youths who must have heard only whispers of the existence of the Alder King. For they were too young and wary and did not shy away from making eye contact, unlike their parents. In contrast, several had resumed a kneeling position, having bowed their heads and bared their necks. They were notably better-dressed than their animal-skin donning, feral companions and could not have been other but the escaped servants the elves’ had been tracking. Yet nobody seemed to pay them any attention for now.

In the centre of the chamber upon a natural plinth lay a smooth dark slab surrounded by small smoking vessels, mistletoe, and blackthorn. A hunched figure in yellow rags stood behind it, his wrinkled face hidden partly by his long grey beard and a crown of antlers and thorns. The priest was muttering, quietly and persistently, while keeping an eye on the intruders whose threats he ignored, and it seemed as if there may have been some hidden spell in his empty chanting, for it had clearly captivated the humans who had knelt around the plinth and had not attempted to hide or defend themselves.

Or perhaps the spell lingered instead inside the small, still body of a fair-haired girl who rested quietly at the centre of the altar stone, wrapped in cloth, white as snow.

Eredin’s fingers clenched around the shiv. He flicked the blade, determined the precise point of its weight centre, and threw in a speed no human could ever hope to match. The shiv pierced the artery under grey hair, the priest’s blood rained down upon the small, white corpse of the daughter of the Alder Folk, and the spell was broken.

‘Get away, _dh’oine_. Get away from the girl.’

‘Gather them together!’ Eredin ordered. ‘Take everything that belongs to us!’

‘Hey, listen to this! This one looks like a skinned rabbit, but it’s _Ellylon_ it speaks. How old are you, little madam? How did you get here? Why are you worshipping these dead stones? Have you regressed, or what?’

Statues erected in honour of this primitive race’s gods lined the walls. They were old: so old that none of the _dh’oine_ here today could not have remembered them, but Eredin did. He had seen such places of worship before. Humans never got beyond anthropomorphism.

Ielwyn swayed in his spot, then dropped Beliran who was no longer capable of supporting his own weight.

‘It’s only a sanctuary,’ the elf groaned. ‘The old man was conducting a funeral. There’s no need for –’

Eredin grabbed Beliran by the throat and pressed him against the wall, making sure his men were out of earshot before he addressed him.

‘Seventeen lives. Seventeen of whom not even a memory survives for a burial and a cenotaph,’ he hissed. ‘The Eyien are our enemies and pass judgment on us as enemies would, but what you do is perverse. For how long have you been leading them here? On whose advice?’

‘You would not understand. How could you? I know who you are,’ the eyes that looked at him were spiteful and sad. ‘What miserable fate...’

He pressed on the elf’s larynx. His chin quivered, fear and disdain mingling in his gaze.

‘There will be no trial for you, you understand that?’ he said seriously. ‘You may wish to leave a statement behind – your ideology, beliefs, sentiments, last regrets. I believe that is more than generous toward a kinslayer.’

‘I have not killed anyone.’

Eredin pressed his armoured glove on the elf’s wound underneath the ribcage and was rewarded with a spill of blood from the man’s mouth as he howled in pain.

‘I was going to take her back. Believe me, when I realised... I was going to return her–’

‘Except the _dh’oine,_ bewildered by the Eyien’s magic, having briefly tasted the fruits of vengeance against their mistress, finished her. You did not kill anybody. You sat by, deaf, dumb, and blind. You miserable excuse of a man. What else? What did you allow them to do to this little girl? Confess, I’m giving you a chance.’

‘I have nothing to confess!’ another splurt of blood. ‘They did nothing to her! Didn’t you see? They were worshipping her! They were awestruck when they saw her in my arms; awestruck and scared. They didn’t... they didn’t have a hand in this. They’re docile to a fault, even the ones whom old age is about to nab, except when the unicorns... You know that! You fucking know that.’

He pushed the thin metal edge of the glove further into the wound and slid it back and forth along the cut as one would a fillet knife.

‘Ah... I swear by Dana, I _bloede_ swear.... He saved her. The servant saved her from being trampled upon. Only, in the forest at night... I fell asleep and when I woke this Eyien, it was standing over her. I couldn’t move. I only live because I understand that what you do is madness. Blind vengean...argh, please. She slept. I don’t know what it did... I think she did not feel anything. For the love of Dana, I did not wish any harm –’

Eredin thought about it for a moment, then took Beliran’s head between his hands and, in a swift motion, twisted.

Water dripped from high above into a small basin that had been placed at the child’s head. She looked serene and beautiful. As did all elven children – few and precious.

_‘You carry the stench of death. You decay. You wither.’_

He looked at the grotesque statues of the gods of this sphere’s native humans. It was all the same everywhere: all of them worshipped and feared death, and it was death that was ever present in the grim faces of their gods. Be it total decay, madness, and chaos, or the final white stasis where nothing could be out of place – the result would still be the same.

_Come with us, Cianánil. This is not your place._

He lifted the girl in his arms and headed for the tunnel. He hoped the child, though alone, would find her way to Avalon; that the Eyien had not deprived her of her birthright.

‘Commander? What about them?’

Eredin stopped, then turned. Yes, what about the _dh’oine?_

Beliran had been correct in one respect: he did not understand. Eredin did not understand the defeatists, abolitionists, and traitors among the _elle,_ who in their arrogance thought they knew better than their elders and superiors. Who contributed to farces like this one. Did they miss the reservations – petri dishes in which to observe the inner workings of a human society from afar? In which to descend, from time to time, to share wisdom with the savages and ease one’s conscience while nothing changed? As had, for so long, been the case in _Sidhe_ , where the bloody wheel had turned. It was because of these fever dreams of co-existence that the Alder Folk had lost what was most precious to them. It was because of that that earth flowed with the blood of elves and his people could do nothing but sit here, imprisoned, and watch and wait. Eredin had felt no pity for Lara, nor did he pity anyone, who in their hearts, though they pretended otherwise, had forsaken their tribe.

But what about this mess here and now? It was best not to give any exposure to such events in a time of peace.

‘Did you check the cave thoroughly? Is it a dead end?’

‘Yes, commander.’

Eredin nodded.

‘Do you like it here?’ he addressed the humans, following with his gaze the drip of water up into the darkness, and remembered an old legend he’d once heard on his travels on the Spiral. ‘You can stay. You have my permission.’

Hubbub arose among his young unit as in a beehive and Ielwyn cast him an unsure look.

‘You shall continue to live as free humans in the wastes. For it is clear that our society is not good enough for you. But! You shall live as your kind would have ours live, if it came to that. As you have our cousins live in the world you have taken with your muddy little paws. In the mountains, under the hills, behind rock and silence. It’s good that you like it here. Your gods do too. May they be with you.’

He squeezed the girl’s stiff body in his arms and turned, heading for the exit. The bitter wind on his face felt refreshing after the stench of burning herbs and the sweat of bodies in the cavern. But the weather was turning, the world did not welcome them here, and they had to make haste not to find themselves out in the open when the storm hit. The portalist better learn to puke while on horseback.

‘Seal the entrance!’

\---//---

Soft footsteps fell on marble, leaving no echoes underneath the spiralling star-vaulted ceilings on which one could admire the rapidly dawning sky above the splendid palace. The chiaroscuro world of amber and malachite portals, mother-of-pearl and gilt scarlet, awaited the touch of light from a new day to wash through the tall, stained glass windows that framed the gallery.

Passing through a portico that connected one gallery with another, Eredin slowed. He was not the only guest here at this early hour. In a niche at the end of the gallery stood a statue of an expectant mother, her flowing clothes barely concealing her. Under the creeping fingers of twilight, she walked on fallen leaves that shuffled gently around her bare feet.

He nodded briefly to Avallac’h once he’d caught up, but the latter did not reciprocate. The Sage looked as lifeless as the statue, his gaze fixed on the viper in the leaves that wound its way around the woman’s legs in search of its own tail. Most visitors did not know to look there, because the image of a pregnant elf said what it wanted to without ambiguity. In the commander’s opinion though, the artist had only succeeded in capturing Shiadhal’s likeness in shape, not spirit. Though perhaps this was but another facet of the Eyien’s cruel punishment of denying their victim the hope of reaching the shores of Avalon: even those who had known you started doubting whether you had existed at all.

‘Is our leader’s disorder so great that even at the crack of dawn you must attend him?’ he spoke first. ‘The Council will know of this.’

Avallac’h cast a glance sideways. His expression remained impenetrable, but the shadows above his sharp cheekbones looked dark and deep, as if the sorcerer had spent a number of nights sleepless.

‘You look awful, Eredin.’

The commander allowed himself a wry smile. They stood quietly, each wrapped in their own thoughts. Before dawn, the air in the palace always possessed a slight bite.

‘Instead of coming to me – to eminences who could formulate a new and efficient plan of attack – you and Auberon talk. Meanwhile, the ball of blame rolls around: from Gaeth an Gyre to High Command to local governors. Eyien kill at will and snicker, and I must carry bodies of our children out of places of savage worship.’

‘Places which have miraculously become repopulated.’

Eredin raised an eyebrow, covering up the momentary unease with a contemptuous twist of mouth.

‘Attack, attack, attack – it’s all he ever thinks about,’ the Sage sighed and turned to him. ‘Did it not occur to you that such incidents are precisely why keeping up appearances is beneficial to us? How else would mice feel safe enough to come out and play, hm?’

‘Of course, at the moment you are after redress, as per usual, though I honestly don’t see what you’re looking to gain. Do you want another war with the unicorns? As General Commander this time? You’re looking for enemies in the wrong place: in the dark. The darkness is ours. This world is ours: it is ours to the point of utter boredom and banality. The hearts of _elle_ are a different matter.’

‘Perhaps for you. It took a while to recuperate after Lara left us, didn’t it? Most don’t even understand what you do, much less why they have to re-arrange their lives after your caste’s wishes.’

‘Don’t overestimate your own image. The strength of arms sends an unequivocal message. No one quivers with love when you come hammering on their door.’

‘Tell me,’ the sorcerer continued, ‘would you have gone to Aedd Aëte in person if you had known the true cause of the problems at the time?’

He then held his gaze, a small, knowing smile spreading on his lips.

‘Something to think about perhaps.’

The commander thought back on the stubborn conviction and insistence of the provost, the garbled accusations of Belinar, and the silent, almost unsurprised contemplation on Aramil’s face when he had finished retelling the events of the assignment - one he would not have bothered with, had he known what Aramil had come to tell him not two nights past. And while he thought, the first rays of the sun broke through the stained glass of the great gallery.

‘I will speak with Auberon. I don’t pretend to entirely understand what is happening with him, but I’ve seen enough: if his situation worsens then we must take precautions.’

‘By all means, do so. How could I forbid you? Just be aware he might dismiss our concerns as pesky.’

‘I am surprised you didn’t.’

‘How could I? I must ensure the path is clear for good things to come our way.’

‘What things?’

The Sage gave a mild smile.

‘Deal with death, Eredin. Leave me to take care of life.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lore/Mythology:  
>  **Aramil** \- You can find a letter from a certain Aramil, an elf from Tir na Lia, in The Witcher 2, in the ruins of Loc Muinne.  
>  **Winter Queen** \- In Sword of Destiny, Yennefer tells Geralt about an elven legend concerning the Winter Queen. She is someone _"who travels the land during snow-storms in a sleigh drawn by white horses. As she rides, she casts hard, sharp, tiny shards of ice around her, and woe betide anyone whose eye or heart is pierced by one of them. That person is then lost. No longer will anything gladden them; they find anything that doesn’t have the whiteness of snow ugly, obnoxious, repugnant. They will not find peace, will abandon everything, and will set off after the Queen, in pursuit of their dream and love. Naturally, they will never find it and will die of longing. Apparently here (in Aedd Gynvael) something like that happened in times long gone."_ Geralt responds that this is only a beautiful description for the Wild Hunt. Also H. C. Andersen's Snow Queen retelling.  
>  **Shiadhal's Mirror of Reason** \- Look for the original in Andersen's Snow Queen: a mirror made by the Devil which fell and broke when the demons were carrying it up into the heavens to mock the angels. Mix that with the lake which the Snow Queen calls her mirror of Reason.  
>  **Herian** \- One of Wotan's (Odin's) many titles, meaning "head of the hunt." Possibly another variation of Herne or Cernunnon.
> 
> Language:  
>  _Eyien_ \- Unicorns in Ellylon (taken from Yagi Hikaru's Child of Destiny manga of Ciri's time with the elves; I recommend it here: https://www.patreon.com/yagihikaru/posts )  
>  _Sgowtiaede!_ \- Scouts  
>  _Gwarcheid eis arainne?_ \- Guardian of the mountain?  
>  _Feindiwn’en ceathwe neidr. Va veloë! _\- Find the rainbow snake. Go quickly!__  
>  _Wedd a’elle._ \- child of the Alder Folk
> 
> Constructive criticism & thoughts always welcome!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lara makes plans after Shaerrawedd, is tempted by the satisfying act of stabbing & is given a puppy as an apology.

_‘Stars and constellations. The Winter Maiden, the Seven Goats, the Pitcher. According to some theories, they aren’t just little twinkling lights, but worlds. Worlds from which time and space separate us… I believe deeply that one day journeys to those other places, to those other times and universes, will be possible. Yes, it will certainly be possible one day. A way will be found. But it will demand utterly new thinking, a new, original idea that will tear apart the rigid corset called rational cognition that restricts it today…’_

**\- Aarhenius Krantz**

_‘It's always been the end of the world  
and I am in love with a beautiful girl.’_

\- **Unknown**

What is time?

Bubbles rose, one by one, from the straw on the Alder King’s lips and shimmered with the colour of magic against sun’s life-giving light. Each a little world that would eventually go: plop!

Time is an illusion. A magic trick. A trap.

Time is the eternal lover of decay.

Every beginning necessitates an end. Everything must come to a close. All biology must eventually breathe its last. Unless they’re a jellyfish. Unless they exist inside a story. _So the question is very much simple, even for us, elves: how to defang death?_

‘I can tell you that we don’t do it like the jellyfish does it.’

\---//---

Two riders slip across grey earth by the lakes, quickly as fleeing shadows at dawn. They’re the ghosts of those who departed from this world long ago. The woman glances at the man who rides a blue roan in silence. This silence has now lasted longer than any other during their trip. And the stay is coming to an end.

She has expressed to him her wish to come more often and to stay for longer. He has not responded. Words and promises carry great weight for those who have the time to see them through.

They have walked on the ruins of the beautiful Shaerrawedd where white roses bloom in memory of a heated promise made of a future that never materialized. That brought annihilation and destruction. Before it had happened, they had warned the elders, advised them. Yet, it is difficult to take advice from those who do not have to suffer daily from the same sorrows as you. It is especially hard for the young. For Aelirenn, who had been a young elf, it had been impossible and immoral to wait. Time eats all.

Or humans will.

The game has changed now. For the Seidhe, the strength to survive can no longer come from arms. And because of that the woman feels that it is precisely more time in this world that she requires. To help, to work on a solution. The man believes they have the solution. But that necessitates waiting. Lara, too, is a young elf. Something more even than duty seems to urge her on. Something more urges her companion to silence too.

Simply put, they are having a tiff.

She has fallen some way behind him when she sees something and slows down completely from the gallop. By the treeline of a birch forest. It flashes like a bruxa and disappears. Lara looks patiently through the misty autumn haze. Then sees it again: a little yellow head spying on them from amidst the rubble. She starts heading in the direction of the burned hut but Crevan reaches her. His horse dances around her, blocking her path.

‘What is it? Come, we must keep moving.’

‘Look! Over there.’

He keeps putting himself between her and the treeline as he observes. Under different circumstances, she would find it sweet.

‘This is a human dwelling.’

‘There’s someone there. I want to take a look.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s alone. Orphaned. I want to see if we should help.’

‘We don’t have time for this. The portal doesn’t wait.’

The relief that she has just felt over the broken silence evaporates.

‘Children shouldn’t be held responsible for the sins of their parents.’

She pulls past him. They’ve been arguing about this for the better part of their journey to _Sidhe_ and she just doesn’t want to anymore.

‘Lara!’

The little yellow head disappears at the sight of her bay’s approach. She sees it bury between the charred rafters, snuggling under the broken millstone overgrown with nettles. The girl turns her back on the elven sorceress, her long yellow hair falling over a torn shirt on her back. She is suddenly reminded of the vision on a mirror’s surface of doubled-over skeletons at Est Haemelet, and of the sight of a human village they had passed on their way south where yellowed bones peeked from underneath the carpet of moss and leaves, unburied and forgotten. All bones look the same in the end.

_If you don’t look, will the horrors eventually go away?_

And they will make more. More, more, more, until all living things have become but bones of the earth.

Lara sees Crevan dismount hastily and already he has set his foot on the ruin, seemingly willing to throw himself into the jaws of a fiend even, if only to keep her from doing anything herself. She dearly wishes there was a fiend there at the moment.

He switches to local Common the humans speak, attempting to get the child to crawl out and meet them, but gives up near instantaneously when he gets no response.

‘We can’t delay like this, Lara.’

‘We can always take the long route.’

‘That is not even remotely funny right now, you realise? We have not prepared for the Spiral. I will not put you in danger without a convincing reason.’

‘We are here to help, Crevan. Let me try to talk –’

‘We’ve done our duty already. What will this accomplish? I swore to your father –’

‘She’ll die here!’

His expression is one of genuine confusion. She is surprised too.

‘ _Me minne_ , what –’ Lara feels utterly alone for the moment as he speaks, stepping up to her bay and laying his hand on its neck. ‘This overgrown rubble here – it is not recent work. I don’t remember this ruin, last I took this path. Clearly, she has only taken shelter here. Humans have settled in these parts. Someone of her own tribe is bound to find her. They never venture far out alone, adult or child.’

‘Monsters often venture out alone. This world has plenty.’

‘Please, Lara.’

She wishes she could hate him for the stolid pragmatism that accompanies his reasoning at every turn, but she cannot when he looks at her like he does now. Lara knows she alone fills the iris of his eyes to the point of excluding all else. How can she fault him for such blindness?

‘It doesn’t have to be this way. I want to put an end to all of it, Crevan.’

Her statement comes across as hilariously naïve for one such as herself, and she knows it very well. It could not possibly stand of its own will as an argument in any court – elven or human. Nevertheless, it summarises all she feels when she struggles to unravel the endless cycle of good and evil for herself, while brokering the best possible deal for those before whom she has the responsibility, and Lara believes she should not have to say more than that to those who she trusts to know her. If only she didn’t feel so tired after each time...

‘I know,’ he replies simply.

And for now that is enough.

Because the portal to the world of elves doesn’t wait.

\---//---

At home, almost everything is different.

Theirs is a world in which time is not allowed, yet they still keep petty time for convenience. It takes Lara a little while to re-orient herself in the circadian displacement that initially overwhelms. Yet, not even three nights pass in non-time before she glides across the brilliant palace marble in a dance that never ends. The universe does not care for grief or happiness – it moves, from one state to another, forever. Breaking and changing, expanding or contracting, cooling or heating – that remains up to each author. Blood can flow as fast as tears, but it flows elsewhere, and the echo of its touch washes off Lara’s shoes instantly. For Lara, the daughter of the White Mariner and the Queen of Winter, is the stuff of fairy tales, and in her blood sings the promise of eternity itself. Time and decay cannot touch her; her children will be kings of kings, for all time and forever.

Stories always move forward at such points – at those assertions forever beyond verification. There is nothing new, but there are ends and there are beginnings in infinite variety; because thinking creatures cannot escape the bindings of the great narrative that rules existence in fairy tales – even the very real ones. The sole reason elven legends surpass others is: they are true. And if not yet, then elves, as authors and subjects of their own songs, have all the time and means in all the worlds to make them so.

_Fairy tales._

Who writes the rules? Why wouldn’t you want to write them yourself? Life that cannot do what the tenders of the so-called Elder Blood can will simply have to be satisfied with coming along for the ride in time and space, cycle upon cycle upon cycle. As the great snake Ouroboros twists and turns.

When the Monocerron and Three Sisters rise in the east, _elle_ waltz through the enchanted witch wood between the palace’s lace walls; in-between dark and light where all underworlds and forgotten groves become wrapped around your fingers like a string of pearls. Smiling faces, open hands. Seven golden rings – glinting in starlight as chandeliers, in memory of the days they left Magh Mheall behind and wandered through space and time, having sealed their fate with the Eyien. In Sages’ mirrors, behind glass and smoke, it’s all fading fast. Things are no longer the same; they haven’t been for some time and they continue breaking down even as most elves dance the night away blissful and unaware. Some of them have seen both worlds, some have seen only this one – yet a few others have seen many.

Auberon, who has seen many, stays only for as long as it takes to lead his daughter in the first dances; balls have lost their taste for him since the Queen’s departure. But for the duration, he composes himself and Lara tells him of her recent mission. It is not a happy subject. Here and there she presents Crevan’s views as her own because Lara knows she and Auberon disagree on more than he and her betrothed; as if that was surprising. It’s the question of responsibility that divides them; it has as many sides as a dodecahedron. Her father could see through her, should he so wish, Lara believes, but Auberon does not wish so. He loves her with all of his heart and trusts her to always know what is right. There could be no higher honour than his trust, but it does not make Lara feel free.

Knowing something never does.

Stopping between the winding stairs on which summer turns into winter and caramel leaves spiral in the air, she finally leaves the Alder King and is embraced by her ladies and courtiers. It is impossible for her to ever find herself truly alone on nights like these.

Not like in _Sidhe_ , where increasingly many places that once invited the elves are becoming empty and cold and strewn with hateful memories. Truthfully, she does not mind the constant attention nor the talk of politics and intrigue tonight – not after having returned from parts, where the silence strangles. If only Enid was here with her, but the Daisy of the Valley would not leave even if she could; she believes she would not feel welcome in their court. Lara believes her, but only to an extent: she could practically taste the envy on the tongues of the Sages she met in Sidhe. Unfortunate and uncomfortable, but understandable.

Choices were made, once.

Speaking of choices...

He attends with two flame-haired beauties this time, one of whom, Lara is certain, has never been to court before, judging by the doe eyes and the trimmings on a dress which has been cut so it spits on etiquette. Well, unfortunate for her, fortunate for the captain. And unfortunate for Lara because Eredin doesn’t care for his dates’ dresses until they can come off; until then he always singles out opportunities to do what he always does best – compete.

The Sparrowhawk bows deeply before her, though his straight back remains unbent all the way through. The frost oozing from the spiralling staircase next to the cocktail table has, miraculously, chased away all courtiers, leaving Lara alone for the first time during the evening. How did the saying go: be careful what you wish for – you might just get it?

_Simply wonderful. Thank you, Enid, for being with me, always – in thoughts alone. Thank you, Crevan, for disappearing at a moment’s notice only when I wish for the opposite._

‘Captain.’

‘Your grace.’

‘You are depriving your lovely partners of your delectable company. For me?’

‘When I see something off with the picture, I intervene.’

‘Admirable. Shall we?’

She takes his hand, raises her chin, and off they go.

Eredin is a remarkable dancer: overwhelming, as he is in everything. You not so much dance with him as were danced by him. Enid would like him, Lara thinks. Daisy has claimed a liking to men who lack complexes – Eredin lacks them to the point of absent all boundaries. Astonishing, in fact, how one could be so superbly put together that you would inevitably get called a prude for bothering to note something as small as the obvious lack of a soul.

‘I trust you had a pleasant journey.’

‘About average.’

‘Understandable. The situation infuriates me too,’ he doesn’t specify; they wouldn’t agree anyway. ‘But where is your fiancée? Why don’t I see him not three meters from you, as per usual? Unlike him to neglect what delights him so. I dearly hope nothing has happened.’

‘I think I will never understand what he sees in you, Eredin.’

‘Everything he is not.’

‘Everything he would rather not be, I would hope.’

The smirk on his face is insufferable.

‘Not as much separates us as you would think. Have you ever weighed our vices against each other?’

‘Oh, I stopped counting. There are more interesting things than the male ego, would you believe. Besides, I found my answer in another way.’

‘I’m certain you did. Your perception is reputed. Crevan is a wonderful opponent. It would be very boring without him – paradoxical, considering how dull I find your caste’s approach –’

‘Careful Eredin, your boundless love for my betrothed and me is beginning to show again. Let’s just dance, shall we?’

Straight white teeth flash. Of course the answer is “no.”

‘Ah, what would be the point of hiding that I resent him with all my heart? Which man would not? For to have you, Lara, the beautiful, brilliant daughter of our beloved ruler, as one’s fated – why, any man would write such a fate for themselves given half the chance.’

_You’re the end and the beginning in a world where time is not allowed._

Of course any man of their tribe would envy Crevan. There is only one true meaning – to be a positive force in the constant creation of life. _Elle_ revere motherhood given how precarious is their reproductive cycle. As if they weren’t truly made to be born in accordance with the laws of biology, natural selection, and evolution. A young mother is the treasure of her people: the indispensable unique instrument of fate. Yet it is the male who is congratulated for wielding this instrument of fate. Though this comes from Eredin, who has remarkably much in common with humanity and its views, this is still how the narrative for some reason tends to turn under the laws of competition between different life forms, in the rat race of material universes. It is truly remarkable how easy it is to poison the well of life.

The lift, which she had hoped he’d skip, shakes her from her thoughts and she realises this ambitious instrument of her mother’s has kept talking in the meanwhile. That is quite alright, Lara knows his camp’s spiel more or less by heart by now. The glory, the realm, the Gate, the Spiral, and so on. Generals and military men, bred for specific traits, become restless when their numbers grow, and have their own understanding of eternity.

‘Considering all this, I do not understand why our most beloved daughter runs to the lost lands so often when all the very best joys of life are already within arm’s reach of her – including the salvation of, oh, is it still “everything”?’

‘I believe we both know an answer to this question.’

‘Our duty is right here: in the land of milk and honey.’

‘And here I always thought you felt most at home on a ground of spit and blood. What are you doing here, captain? How is duty these days?’

‘Ever in my heart, your grace. In the absence of your beloved, I fulfil his and mine right now.’

‘Which is?’

‘Since I dare say I know a little more intimately than you as to what is the price for living in a land of milk and honey, why, to guard what is ours, of course.’

‘Is that the realm or me, Eredin?’

‘Both.’

‘Even if both are mine and Crevan’s?’

‘Ours,’ he emphasises. ‘None of us belong to ourselves. Your caste more than most, I would think. You yourself more than anybody.’

He isn’t wrong. He is despicably right. It’s just that it is him daring to tell her that.

‘Does anything in your existence ever come without possession?’

‘You know the answer. I love more freely than your caste can ever allow themselves.’

‘Our caste has taken note of your concern.’

He laughs and sends her on a twirl.

‘Somebody has to do the work and play the part, so deliverance and love could blossom undisturbed where they ought to – up there, on the branch of the apple tree. Quaint, that. Foxes shouldn’t know how to fly, in my view, but I don’t claim to be an expert in what strange things have been happening in the underbrush.’

‘And yet they are very comfortable to snuggle up to. No fear of talons and a beak pecking your eyes out while you sleep.’

‘I dearly hope your grace’s sweet dreams have been sparse of late and you’ve been getting a lot of practice where it matters most. Everyone is waiting with abated breath for the golden children you and Crevan are going to give us. Surely the time is all but nigh?’

Passing the caviar, Lara comes the closest she has ever been to grabbing a fork and jabbing it in Eredin’s liver: befitting punishment, surely, for someone who seems to enjoy nothing more than pecking?

‘Definitely let me know when the right time is here. It is your expertise, captain, that is still absent from matters concerning procreation and my health. As a Sage, I could not possibly know better than the rest of you.’

‘I meant no offence,’ he says seriously. ‘It’s a delicate matter of which you, as a Sage and a woman, have a profound and unique understanding. I couldn’t bother to begin to comprehend it. I am merely voicing the hopes of the silent majority. Love is very dear to our hearts.’

‘Strange, I always took you to be interested in voicing only the opinions of one person – yourself. The opinions of the vocal minority.’

‘Here you are mistaken, I’m afraid. You can always count on me to speak on behalf of the common people when it comes to matters of the realm. Their voice may be a bit uncouth to your ears, as it sits on my tongue, yet in the end it is still for their benefit that we work tirelessly – your caste and mine.’

‘Alright, Eredin. Let it be the common people then who enjoy your patronage tonight,’ she sighs. ‘It’s true that we are becoming estranged from them as it is. Little as it changes the fact that the commons have as little business with my bedchamber and ovulatory cycle as you.’

‘Finally, a little bit of frankness. I knew I could count on you for that,’ he smiles. ‘We both know that the importance of satisfying your grace goes far beyond the matters of this realm. Turns out love truly can be of cosmic significance! Especially now that our relationship with the Eyien is rapidly losing its warmth. Again, I bow before your knowledge, but... just a thought.’

‘You realise Crevan will ensure you will never return from the Spiral if I let him in on your worries regarding my happiness and sexual satisfaction?’

Eredin purses his lips; it manages to make him look secretive – a once in a lifetime sight.

‘Will he? At any rate, if you really wished to tell him, you would have already.’

‘Correct.’

‘Ever the peacemaker, your grace. Shiadhal and Auberon have raised a daughter as wise as she is beautiful.’

There is a sharp, suspecting glint in his cold, green eyes that mirror her own in a twist. They do not agree on how the story should continue – his camp and hers. She has to bring herself up to date on what’s the score. Instead of reacting, she should have taken the opportunity to hear his thoughts regarding their increasingly uncomfortable patrons, the unicorns.

‘I would wash that honey off your lip if I were you,’ she says coldly, irritated with herself. ‘It is neither for your or his benefit that I tolerate your lip.’

‘I often wonder, why do you? Perhaps there is something in my insolence that is not offered to your grace’s ears by anyone else? To hear praise and reassurance day and night must be getting vapid even for you by now.’

‘No palette would be complete without that one splotch of discord. You have my gratitude, captain, for keeping me informed. I do so enjoy keeping an eye on where that splotch of pigeon crap is situated at all times.’

‘I’m glad we understand each other.’

‘Yet it changes very little, doesn’t it? Our understanding each other,’ she lets the heel of her shoe freely kick him in the shin at the next turn. ‘At the end of the day, your words fall on my ears as those of an irritable nothing. It would be below me to treat them as anything more significant than what they are.’

The music draws to a close; new notes intertwine with the old, heralding the beginning of the next dance – the music and the dancing never stops.

‘I will be forever in the service of you and your offspring, your grace.’

‘It is good you know your place.’

‘Always,’ he leans down and kisses the back of her hand. ‘Do you?’

_Pit dog!_

‘May love blossom forever in your heart, O daughter of Shiadhal.’

 _Insolent, tactless, power-hungry... –_ she wants to scream! Why does father allow him so much!? Why does Crevan... To think that they had once thought this one could even be an option! Lara empties the crystal flute and reaches for another. She is no longer in the mood to dance all night long. The wine, though...

\---//---

Nights like these tend to last forever.

Everything here can last forever – grief, pain, longing. Love.

He finds her eventually of course, long before the night is done. She sits in a portal on the steps of one of the many open, moonlit corridors that extend from the walls of the great star-vaulted hall and spiral toward the velvety terrestrial skies. From afar, she recognises him by his gait and steps and turns in the opposite direction abruptly, in the middle of the conversation she’s been having, before his shadow can reach her. Like she used to do when father was about to find her in the mazes of the palace gardens.

Moments like these tend to last, too.

The night is warm and the wines... she laughs to herself as he catches her and wraps his arms around her.

‘Where have you been?’

‘Where have I been!?’

They turn, they’ve been left alone. Traitors – all of her friends!

‘I have a surprise for you,’ he breathes her in.

‘A surprise?’

‘Come with me.’

She lowers his arms, turning around to face him, and finds him... out of order. For him, at any rate.

‘You look wonderful!’

‘You, on the other hand, look very interesting. I might just forgive abandoning me if you have an interesting excuse. Did something happen? Are you having fun without me?’

‘Have you not been enjoying yourself?’ he asks seriously.

For a moment she is tempted to tell him, but just as quickly buries the thought. It’s below her, and besides –

‘Answer my questions, please’ she insists slowly.

The frown eases off his face and he grins, putting his arm around her and pulling her along, up the steps, as he begins his story.

‘I woke up and saw a door that I had never seen before.’

So it was going to be a parable. She quite enjoys those.

‘Simply impassible, I thought. I considered getting you, holding council. Perhaps putting the question to Auberon: rogue doors are no laughing matter, especially impassible ones. What opportunities does it hold? What promise, what danger? But then I thought of something you said to me when we first met, and you know how I am: I like to try things out, even if they seem impassible at first. And so, it wasn’t impossible at all – the door opened before me and I stepped through! I’ve been walking ever since,’ he theatrically kicks dirt off his ever-spotless, soft leather boots. ‘If you’ll come with me, I’ll show you what I found.’

Lara holds his gaze. The male’s large, almond eyes gleam playfully. They come to an empty doorway.

‘Where to? Honestly, I may have had just a little too much of our finest tonight and if you’re going to teleport us again I might just –’

‘Only to my quarters. You’ll like it, I promise.’

Their minstrels sing that just as ocean calls to land, his eyes call to her and her emeralds to him. Fairy tales. The song was written long ago, she doesn’t recall about whom: it is simply their turn to embody it. She resists the urge to roll her eyes; she hasn’t seen him since their return and it’s good that there is no more silence.

She gives him her hand.

‘Also, I resent the accusation. The pathways I create are always safe.’

‘Whereas your ideas regarding where these paths should take us – decidedly not. Unless my father is really-really breathing down your neck on getting his daughter back for the holidays.’

He smiles serenely and leads them on.

When they arrive, Crevan lets go of her hand and, contrary to his usual manner, enters ahead of her, keeping her a little to the back.

‘Probably asleep,’ he mutters to himself.

_If this is another adorable monster he has dragged back with him..._

‘Would you wait here, my love?’

She stays in the drawing room as he disappears behind the corner into the dining area, study, and beyond.

He usually takes up residence here whenever they are both at Tir ná Lia at the same time. Which up until recently has been all the time. Nothing he has altered has been touched – he does not like his possessions touched. Even his birds are still here, their cages in pristine order and the doors open – they always return on their own.

Still, he is formally staying as Lara’s guest and she always takes a look at everything.

She knows what she will find if she ventures forth: books, scattered paintings, sheet music, sweets, a mess of scribbles, contraptions, puzzles and frivolous little inventions – Crevan doesn’t separate work from pleasure. An unfinished painting of his profile catches her eye: it’s done to heliologist imagery again, except the painter has added a holly crown and white gems in his hair this time. He says he never looks at them – ‘ _I don’t need anyone to know me, it suffices if they confuse everyone they think they know for me’_ – but Lara knows he is lying on at least half the occasions. She wonders if Crevan threw the artist out before they left for _Sidhe_ and that’s why the tonally confused thing still sits here.

It is beyond her why everyone is making such a fuss. Receptions, balls, galas, soirees, races, symposiums, banquets, visits to the provinces, and then there’s all this knick knack: paintings, sculptures, embroidery, and porcelain. She hates the crockery above all else. Yet, it cements the narrative and brings the arcane matter closer to the _elle_. It feels like a separate reality, the one stories are made in – and isn’t that the most delicious irony of all considering the nature of their main project with _Hen Ichaer_? For the freedom of passing on into as many realities as they like, whenever they like, they will have to tolerate this vortex of alternative interpretations of themselves. Forever. Even right here – at home.

There are forces in the universe that are eternal, yet not primordial. Love and hatred, for example. They are real, but their nature is also inherently fake: they make up three quarters of the essence of all songs. And so do the elves. Be careful what you ask for – you might just get it.

‘Just who are you hiding –’

Her question freezes on her lips.

With Crevan is a small thing of yellow hair and big blue eyes full of dreamy apprehension. Lara recognises her instantly.

‘I saw how you looked at her,’ he begins, running his hand reassuringly up and down the child’s head, ‘and I went back for her.’

The girl rubs her eyes, clinging lightly to Crevan’s leg, the oversized white shirt clearly one of the sorcerer’s own. He really has been out walking right up until tonight.

‘She’s a little shy right now, I’m afraid, but –’

‘Who-o-o is that?’

Crevan looks down. The girl is attempting to hide herself behind his thigh. Her skull fits inside his spread out palm.

‘This is Lara. Don’t you remember? She found you near the destroyed barn.’

‘Is she a good elf too?’

‘Yes,’ he crouches before the child, combing her thick, light hair over her ears. ‘She is my beloved. She is an elven princess and she has a very kind heart. She did not want to leave you behind.’

The girl seems to consider the information, picking on the fabric of Crevan’s sleeve and sending furtive glances toward Lara. She is remarkably calm and comfortable around him.

‘Will you greet her? As we agreed.’

‘But where are we?’

‘In my home – mine and Lara’s. And yours too, now.’

‘Why?’

‘Because good children are rewarded in my home. There are many wonderful things to see and do here, remember?’ he smiles easily, talking patiently and with focus. ‘But for that you will have to keep being good, Ana. You will have to do as Lara tells you. At all times. She likes you. Will you promise me you will not make me or my beloved cry? Will you be good?’

The human girl peers at the elven Sage from under her brow, considering the terms of surrender with all due seriousness.

‘I will let you see the unicorns if you keep your promise to me.’

‘Crevan...’

But already Ana nods vigorously. At a small pat on her back, she turns to Lara and does a small dip, which most likely is intended as a curtsy under the oversized shirt that drags behind her like skin on warm milk. The Sage acknowledges the effort with a warm, unsure smile, until the lines of her fair face tighten when she addresses her partner.

‘This is my surprise?’

‘This is Ana.’

‘You brought me a human child from _Sidhe_ , as a gift?’

‘Is something the matter?’

‘What am I to do with her?’

‘Whatever you like. Or if you don’t like her –’

Lara blinks.

‘Have you fed her? How did you even find her? And what about her parents, Crevan? Did you look –’

‘Lara, come now,’ he chuckles. ‘They’re gone. She was alone. And if not, I seriously doubt anyone would come looking now.’

‘Her own tribe will find her – weren’t those your words?’

He eyes her ruefully. ‘It seems I was still faster.’

She looks at the small child who had let the nettles burn her instead of approaching the two of them when they’d come across her on their way to the Tower. Tucked away between rubble, alone and terrified. Their enemy. A nameless number that humans can bear to lose without giving it a second thought.

She unpins her brooch of lapis lazuli birds of paradise and bends down, offering it to Ana who approaches and clasps it gingerly. Her sun-kissed hair has been washed and smells of lavender. A stray kitten. Lara had wanted to help, after all. This is good. She will not die of hunger or cold, anyone’s claws or a spear. It costs them nothing, this small thing. She touches the girl’s hands. They have a rash on them.

The very thought that children are but numbers to humans sounds absurd to her, yet the reality of this difference between their races was made manifest at Shaerrawedd. Humans lost numbers, elves lost the future. Some woman once gave birth to all who died and became bones that day. She does not feel like any of her arbitration and advising in _Sidhe_ will make a difference, but the thought of saving one sad life out of the cycle of hatred and vengeance that is consuming the world on the other side is still better than nothing at all. Be it their enemy’s, or, in fact, precisely because of that.

‘I knew you would approve,’ Crevan breathes.

He’s watching them closely, with adoration.

‘And why is that?’

‘You love children, Lara.’

She swallows against the lump in her throat and briefly closes her eyes.

‘So I keep hearing.’

‘What is wrong?’ he touches her arm. His breathing has quickened, his pupils dilate, and she can feel the hum of magic in his veins. This enviable pedigree that they both share. She casts a quick look toward the child who is admiring the brooch. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll put her to sleep.’

‘No, I’ll go,’ she says quickly. ‘Thank you, Crevan. For the thoughtful gift and... Thank you.’

‘Don’t go. Stay! Talk to me. I’ll play to you – both of you.’

‘You are feeling full of surprises today, aren’t you? For me and Ana?’

‘For you and her. You will be like a mother to her.’

‘Will that make you her father?’

‘She is yours; of course I will be her father.’

‘Well! It appears I’m not the only one who’s had a little bit too much tonight. You still smell of the void. We can play home tomorrow.’

‘It’s not about playing home,’ he nudges her temple with his nose, with his lips, stepping into her space and backing her out of the bedroom. ‘I think you’re right. About everything. About how vicious, how senseless this brutality is. How unnecessary. Fighting with you is the last thing I wish. You see so clearly, whereas I... all I see is you.’

Lara feels the edge of the plinth press into her lower back in the same way as his arguments had cornered hers in _Sidhe_ , but his palm instantly covers the sharp edge. He is coddling her – again. She takes hold of his jaw and unclasps his lips from her neck, forcing him to look her in the eye.

‘I don’t think you’ve changed your mind so quickly and suddenly.’

‘I want to put an end to all of it,’ he continues softly. ‘It doesn’t have to be this way: not there, not here, not anywhere. I see you, I see what you want and want the same. I want to make you happy. I want to give you children – all of them, Lara. Nobody will be left behind. Nobody. They will learn to live in a better world and you will show them the way. We’ll take them along, as the Eyien once took us.’

‘Please, if you can, don’t...’

‘Forgive me. I shouldn’t have called upon them. I know they’ve hurt you greatly,’ he kisses her fingers, one by one. ‘Everything will be in its right place, and there will be peace. We will be different than them. Our children will be different, with your love.’

It sounds like a trap. She doesn’t know why she thinks that. She is yet to have the vision that will change all things irrevocably. Thus, for now, what he promises is enough.

‘Things will never go back to as they were,’ she hisses, running her hand across his collarbone. ‘No one should have monopoly over such Power.’

‘Except us?’

She hesitates. ‘Except us.’

He doesn’t notice. The ocean of the male’s aquamarines shines dangerously, with satisfaction:

‘Children should not be held responsible for the sins of their parents.’

‘Children should not have to beg for the freedom of eternity that has always belonged to them,’ she breathes, echoing him back to him, and takes his lip between hers.

Her mother’s shrill laughter rings in her ears as she sits him down and climbs into his lap.

_The perfect song is framed with silence._

He is warm, keen, and comforting, and he knows how to keep the cold and her mother’s madness at bay. There is a way out. She doesn’t have to argue with him, she just has to love him. A simple thing. He understands her, he’s on her side. They want the same thing, share the same truth: Lara likes it when he surrenders to her. Her dress tears at the seam and his head falls back as she mounts him.

It stupidly occurs to her only by half-way that they are being watched: by the small feral child in one of Crevan’s long, dragging shirts. When Lara’s gaze meets the girl’s, she can see both of them through Ana’s eyes: the woman, who pointed her out, and the man, who took her to the Other Side to please his beloved – fucking. Practicing – for the sake of cosmic significance. For the sake of not having any more orphans like Ana; or at very least, not to have any of them on their conscience when the blood of elves begins to sing.

They are moaning. It looks like the man is hurting the woman somehow, though she appears not to want to do anything to stop it. She does not look sad. She looks very beautiful. She likes Ana a great deal, the wizard says. Ana must always do what the elven princess tells her, or the wizard will take her back to where it is cold and lonely and dark, and put her back under the broken mill stone where the nettles sting and wind blows its deadly pipes.

Lara slaps Crevan across the cheek and buries her face in his neck.

‘You forgot about Ana.’

‘ _Squaess’me_.’

She hears a telling thud as something small hits the floor.

‘Crevan! She could have gotten hurt!’

‘Sorry.’

‘No, you’re not.’

‘She won’t remember anything.’

‘You’re horrible.’

‘I love you.’


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Partially re-written at 10/02/2021.
> 
> _‘Love blinds you,’ Eredin says seriously. ‘You cannot help yourself. That woman... Ha! Lara is younger than either of us, true, and I understand the workings of the heart: the need to romance, to build trust and dependence, establish loyalty. For how long, though? I believe you have waited after her long enough. Or has she forgotten? It’s troubling, Crevan. Troubling for all of us.’_
> 
> _‘If she wishes to wait then that is her decision. You seem to forget of whom you speak. Time is meaningless.’_
> 
> _‘Because it is fated?’_
> 
> _Crevan pauses, looking searchingly into the distance. He worries, but he cannot let it show._

‘What became of her? Of this... Ana.’

He waited.

For some time the Alder King waited, and though a faint smile lingered on her face no sound rose from the lips of his little daughter. Seated in front of him in a circle of fire, her long, thick hair tangling in unfinished braids – waiting. Like him, his blood.

‘Ah, I think I remember. She caught something, didn’t she? Some pestilence, some incurable disease.’ He turned. ‘They all carry it. They are made of it; even the healthiest. I thought you knew.’

To starboard, among waves black as pitch, a copper-gleaming mound surfaced. The worm from the depths had come up to breathe. Its scales shimmered faintly in moonlight.

‘You and Crevan tried searching for a cure but... so sad. You were so sad, _luned._ Such a bad story that. It did not last at all.’

The disintegrating belt of stars stretched across the night sky above and around the dark and silent seas of time. The elf set down another white line to eternity and inhaled deeply. Several droplets of blood hit the mother-of-pearl chessboard.

‘So you began leaving. For longer and longer.’

A bubble rolled out of the Alder King’s straw and grew. It grew until it had become bigger than any bubble had any right to be and detached itself. Wobbling, fragile, splendid. It floated before their eyes like a soapy phantom, a crystal ball inside which nothing could hide. An ideal shape.

Auberon swiped with his hand.

‘Happy endings, _luned_ – if there had to be an end, you wished for such.’

The bubble floated through the air toward the little curly-haired servant frantically rubbing at the scarlet stains spreading on the ancient carpets woven with golden and moon-tear threads. It engulfed him – the bubble. And it lifted the servant up inside the soapy prison, rolling him around. Round and round and round. Like a foetus in an amniotic sac.

‘You also wished to see what lay beyond.’

At seagulls’ screeching, the iridescent cradle burst. The flames jumped.

\---//---

On a long bare hill that rises from the heath under the Kestrel Mountains stands a circular, stout tower. It’s in decent shape, though its western side, under which sits a small herb garden, has disappeared into dark red creepers. The tower overlooks the border between Kaedwen and Redania but doesn't function either as an outpost or as a hermit’s mansion in convenient distance of known roads. Human roads do not lead through here, because there is nothing here to benefit them. It is elves who come here and elves who built this tower.

Today, the tower operates, in the lack of a better word, as a kind of maternity ward.

It’s dawn, though still dark. The purple clouds hang low, chased apart on occasion by gusts of eastern wind. It’s damp, too. The strong oak door screeches on its hinges. For a moment, it rings in her ears – the wail of the newborn. Then the door closes again, leaving the mother and babe indoors at peace.

‘This is the third time you have helped me. I’m accruing quite a debt to you, and I’m starting to feel I cannot possibly repay in full.’

‘All is well then?’

‘Though it smelled like verbena and looked vaguely like it could have had a celandine distillate for a base, I could have sworn I had never encountered anything of its like before, yet... I did everything as you asked. The mother and the boy are safe and will wish to express their sincerest gratitude to the mysterious stranger to whom they owe their lives.’

She smiles to herself. Ever since she committed to her plans, things have gone swimmingly – as if guided by the hand of providence.

He is staring, from the side.

‘I was merely passing through. It is your care and dedication these elves have to be grateful for,’ she says. ‘They say good things about you. Not every man, much less a young magician, would devote themselves to helping women and children, especially of our kind.’

‘Life’s a life, what’s the difference?’

She looks at him sharply.

This son of man: of average height, boasting a short-trimmed beard and brown hair curling impossibly above a set of dark, lively eyes that break chips off wood and steel alike with their stupid determination. He is everything she is not – but what’s the difference?

‘More than you know. Less than matters,’ she replies.

Two urges fight inside her: to say much – too much – and to say nothing at all.

He frowns.

‘That day, after you had performed that miracle –’

‘How very young you are to call what I did a miracle!’

‘– I asked everyone I could trust, among men and elves alike, but came away empty-handed. Men didn’t know and elves, well, I think they simply refused to tell me. They keep their silence still. Not a word. And here I thought I had won their trust.’

She snorts quietly.

‘I see you enjoy making fun of me. That’s very well. I know your kind a little, and ‘tis true: not every day do you find a midwife like me. Have all the fun you want at my expense, elf,’ he bites his lip. ‘If only you would share with me: how is it that you know to be in the right place at the right time, no matter the occasion? What was in that draught that calmed her lymph?’

Wind ruffles his curly hair as the first rays of the sun begin painting the snowy tops of the Kestrel Mountains fiercely, pink in red, red in pink, a dozen brush strokes in a blink of an eye. As autumn paints the trees.

‘Perhaps also answer me this: how come you wear diamonds in the wilds?’

It amuses her, this boldness. He is only making life harder for himself at every turn. Yet he is not afraid to, and she likes that. So, she turns to leave.

‘Where – How will you travel?’

‘I’ll walk.’

‘Bollocks!’

‘I have my ways. Don’t worry about it.’

‘Then you must be either a great and terrible witch of hereto unheard-of power, who enjoys playing with the lives of mortal men like me,’ she grimaces and is glad he cannot see how the corners of her mouth lift at his words, ‘or an angel herself.’

‘Isn’t that always the way?’

‘It is if you refuse to say much about yourself. Others will say it for you. It’s the general problem with your people!’

She does not cast him another glance.

‘Will you at least give me your name this time?’ he shouts.

She thinks about it.

‘Perhaps next time.’

‘I’ll hold you to that.’

Cregennan blinks.

It’s dawning and the heath is empty, as always.

\---//---

She does give him her name, though no more than that. Not for a long time.

To him, she remains a mystery. To her, he becomes a pleasant surprise.

He accepts her comings and goings like those of a cat. It is not like he has much choice in the matter. She keeps an eye on him for he is both quintessentially human and unlike any other she has ever met, and she has an inexplicable, good feeling about him. Their paths cross frequently and he proves his trustworthiness again and again, until stories begin to grow among the elves of _Sidhe_ of a friendship between a human sorcerer and an elven sorceress.

Stories spread – sometimes very far.

\---//---

He lifts the translucent stone and holds it up against the light, applying the last spells:

‘Beautiful.’

Crevan is in a good mood today; he’ll see Lara again very soon.

On a metal operating table, surrounded by carefully placed mirrors to grant maximal visibility to the surgeon, lies the open cadaver of a gargantuan male unicorn with its jet black pelt waiting to be removed and its skull cracked open. The creature’s mane and tail, black as an abyss, have already been cut and set aside. Only its horn, severed from its socket with clean and precise cuts, is naturally blood red in colour and gleams on a separate platter under several orbs of mage light.

‘Remarkably ordinary – the inside. Almost disappointingly so,’ Eredin comments, leaning over the corpse. He is standing in for his commander, who is on a covert operation in the East. ‘You would think a being as advanced as this could arrive at a more novel conclusion than imitating a perfectly ordinary horse.’

‘I sincerely hope you are joking,’ the Knowing One murmurs, weaving several enchantments into one around the small, semi-soft trefoil knot that he holds in-between his fingers. ‘This here is Zerferox of _Caedwen_. As magnificent as he was mean. Which is probably why Viduka got so carried away by the sight of him and decided to honour the occupation of this creature’s beloved forests and valleys by sticking him on his bloodline’s coat of arms.’

‘Who?’

‘Viduka, a certain human margrave who recently began the dynasty of the Unicorn in the north-eastern corner of _–_ ’

‘The “dynasty of the Unicorn”?’ the captain drawls. Several voices snicker by the side-lines. It’s been hours: some lack of restraint is to be expected.

‘Yes. They are susceptible to striking first impressions. What can you do?’

‘That you are able to keep up with such trivia... Incidentally, hasn’t _Caedwen_ also been one of her grace’s recent destinations?’

The Sage does not give an answer.

He focuses on settling the binding charms on the pituitary gland which has hardened over the course of the procedure. Incomparable still to the composite-stone necklace worn by Shiadhal, of course, but it’s still the very first steps. After refinement, this beautiful piece will bind to and begin enhancing the abilities of its wearer – on their movement through time and space, for example. There are other, more interesting applications, too. He has given the ones he has selected much thought.

The sorcerer casts another diagnostic spell to monitor the stability of the live energy inside before setting the crystallised treasure aside inside a small jewellery box lined with several layers of purple silk, and stepping away from the table. Crevan washes his hands and disinfects them, throws the rag on the side of the basin and quenches his thirst, eyeing the captain’s reflection in the mirror. He ogles Crevan’s handiwork greedily. They all do – the chosen among their military and the magicians whom he has been instructing on the several new ways with which they are going to treat the Eyien when the time comes. It’s a delicate matter they are preparing for – a break-up, one might say. Auberon, whose knowledge of these beings is remarkable, whose ambition is great, does not stomach everything that comes with the process, though he loves the results. Crevan, who is not squeamish about the process, delivers and improves on the _Elle_ ’s wishes.

‘Keep your hands to yourself. They are not ready yet,’ he warns. ‘Come, let’s walk. I have finished here.’

The elves from the auditorium above the operating room pour in, eager to take over.

It is still raining gently; the afternoon air is refreshing.

Their stroll takes the elves by the path of twelve connected skywalks, which drown in freshly rinsed flora and create a green, curving ribbon above the smooth cobblestone streets on this side of Easnadh. Lara loves coming here in spring when every day brings a new scent into the bouquet that blooms all around. The ninth skywalk contains specimens collected and planted exclusively by her. How many times has it been that Crevan has waited after her on the Spiral when something novel has captured her interest? Irrelevant – her delight has delighted him immensely each time.

‘Good showing today. Practical. Unburdened by the usual ornamentation.’

Thus, his daydreams dissolve.

‘I am pleased to hear you approve. Perhaps, if you came more often, you would also begin to find some value in the fine detail. The oppressive ornaments.’

‘A rich shroud rots a pretty face, drains the vitality, puts a damper on desire. No. Do not count on it.’

‘As you like.’

‘That they are responsible is a foregone conclusion by now,’ Sparrowhawk’s voice always hardens when he begins speaking about the Queen. ‘For what? For ambition. Ambition that hardly eclipses their own.’ He rests his palm on the pommel of his sword. ‘The reality of this loss is simple: it was meted out to us as if to unruly brats. And because of the Conjunction we are performing for them, as inside one of your petri dishes, while it is abundantly clear from _Sidhe_ there is no moral example to be set with the _Dh’oine_.’

Crevan inhales, leaning down over the lilies and waiting for the storm to subside a little before responding.

‘Wouldn’t you become wary,’ he begins, freeing the flower from the stranglehold of ivy that has dropped on it and begun climbing, ‘if your friend throughout the ages suddenly professed to not needing you anymore? If harnessing the power of creation, say, of freedom manifest, was no longer enough? If they reached, too, for power that comes with erasure?’

‘Metaphors. Ornaments. Poetry. Sometimes it seems to me you simply cannot help yourself. About perfectly natural, tameable processes at that, as your caste has proven long ago.’

‘As my caste has,’ he nods. ‘They may not be part of your repertoire the way we understand them, but they gain much in power due to what you call “poetry”.’

‘Power does not unnerve either me or you, do not put on a show. I will not have a horned horse dictate our fate to us and on this matter my mind is made up. You know my views.’

‘I do. I think of them often – will that reassure you?’ Crevan picks the bloom that is nearest to wilting and breaks it off its stem. ‘Anyway, what is it really that you are fretting about? Today is a good day. It is self-evident Auberon will not let the matter drop. He has never backed down from ambition. Although Shiadhal’s ambitions were at times... unusual. Dangerous, too, but in such elaborate fine detail I see no reason to burden you with it at this very moment, fear not.’

‘It is not her ambition I find concerning.’

Crevan lifts his head and looks at Sparrowhawk.

‘You possess tremendous energy, Eredin, and a tremendous lack of foresight. Slowly, patiently, covertly – until the time is right. Remember?’ he says after a brief silence.

‘You are stalling, Crevan,’ the dark one sneers. ‘You are slumbering and letting the mice slip past your jaws and into the pantry, because you are enchanted by the flight of the seagull.’

‘Leave me in her clutches, then. Why does my happiness bother you so?’ the Sage smiles. ‘We will get what we deserve. What has been promised, and what we have worked for. Things are working out well for you too. The question of extreme, novel measures is moot in the presence of _Hen Ichaer_. Practice some patience – the rewards will taste all the sweeter.’

He presses the bloom into the captain’s hand, pats him on the shoulder, and carries on along the path.

‘You know, I can understand Auberon’s stance: he is hard put to refuse her anything, after Shiadhal. But it honestly puzzles me why you agreed to this flight of charity she is enmeshing herself in.’

‘Why would I dismay her over something so small?’

‘Naturally-naturally. Her grace is a sensitive soul. You are a kind one. But only a blind man would miss that the matter is not small: not to Lara. Not all methods, necessary or not, will suit her grace’s sensibilities. In principle, I respect that, especially considering she is one of you, but... these ideas of hers, Crevan! Don’t tell me you haven’t thought how this boundless sympathy of her beautiful soul could be nothing short of dangerous in its own right.’

Crevan slows, leaning out of an open window between honeysuckle vines. The stained glass casts a rainbow of colours under the elves’ feet as the sun breaks through the clouds.

He cannot deny that he is annoyed. How he adores her, yet he is annoyed – despite all his efforts to convince her, and then to convince himself otherwise, Lara has still insisted on endangering herself over something that will not be decided down in the muck, wrestling pointlessly with the nature of man, but here, among the Knowing. They have everything at the tips of their fingers, him and her. Her spirit, her conviction and vision get all the more sweeping when he adds his devotion to hers.

He will build anything for her.

For that she has to be with him, though. Not out there, playing a humanitarian in a flooding sandbox, where everything is subpar and melancholy worms into the soul. Though they make sure she lacks for nothing, Crevan is not convinced. He’ll try again once she returns.

_Oh, Lara, Lara, why limit ourselves? You wish to see for yourself, to practice, in some sense, for your role which will eclipse many generations that have come before you – that is alright. I trust you. It makes you happy. Must you make the wait so unbearable, though?_

Except it is not really his beloved who is making this nice day unbearable, but the captain. He eyes the Sparrowhawk with irritation. He does not worry out of friendship, naturally. Eredin is impatient for power, Lara is impatient to help, and Crevan has to admit he is beginning to feel impatient too – to get both, in the right way.

‘Men are wily,’ the captain muses, smelling the honeysuckle.

‘I expect you to know.’

‘Bah! Not any less than yourself,’ pale green sparkles with knowing amusement at the Sage’s irritation. ‘I won’t burden you with the fine detail. I only note that, overall, she does not seem to mind such men. Or maybe she does not distinguish between us and others when her mind becomes clouded with these noble thoughts of –’

‘Do you expect me to deny Lara something that is, fundamentally, correct?’ he cuts to the chase.

‘Correct?’ this rightly throws Eredin off, but he has been sniffling after Crevan’s present intentions and thoughts, bearing an entire morning of practicum to that end, and deserves a reward for that. Not the one he was going for, obviously. ‘What are you –?’

‘Man lives and dies in much the same state, Eredin – as children. It is generally better if children did not die if we can help it. Especially now, in the fallout of the Conjunction. They may hold some potential – yes, even humans. It is better if we let the children live but design a purpose for them, generation after generation after generation.’ He smiles tightly. ‘Do you understand what I mean? Until they no longer resemble the narcissistic sociopaths that all children, to an extent, are. A better world for all.’

He holds Sparrowhawk’s incredulous gaze.

‘I and Lara agree on this.’

Twirling the lily in his hand, the captain eyes him contemptuously.

‘As the Eyien then, essentially?’

‘Surely you see why I always try to empathise with the opponent, don’t you?’

Eredin shakes his head.

‘Love blinds you,’ he says seriously. ‘You cannot help yourself. Ha! That woman... Lara is younger than either of us, true, and I understand the workings of the heart: the need to romance, to build trust and dependence, establish loyalty. For how long, though? I believe you have waited after her long enough. Or has she forgotten? It’s troubling, Crevan. Troubling for all of us.’

‘If she wishes to wait then that is her decision. You seem to forget of whom you speak. Time is meaningless.’

‘Is it?’

‘Of course.’

‘Because it is fated?’

Crevan pauses, looking searchingly into the distance. He worries, but he cannot let it show.

‘You know I shall never stop watching over her.’

\---//---

Every world acquires the impress of its people. And every world eventually swallows its people with what they make of it.

Lara sits on a lambskin pelt atop a log covered in light grey _cladonia rangiferina_. A kettle with mulled wine boils on a small fire under the trees. They met up on the third crossroad south from Ban Gleán. Cregennan, who is returning from Gelibol, has been telling her about some travelling merchant from the south and his ideas about the Great Weaver of fate, who dangles all humans’ destinies on the end of its threads, expanding and correcting the fate of the world one broken thread – one life – at a time if the web so demands. Lara instantly recognises it for what it is – a death cult – but he sounds oddly fascinated nevertheless.

_The passing of life is closer to human experience than persistence._

She swirls the crimson liquid in her goblet. This has been her longest stay yet and she is dearly missed back at home, but nights tend to pass terribly swiftly here. Everything does – liberation, happiness, unions.

Hope.

This is what the young magician sees for his world – hope. This man, who offers his protection to the mixed-race community sprung in the forests by the border of Kaedwen and Redania. This human who travels the human kingdoms, talks, and writes letters – so many letters! Letters, which reason and cajole, which create alliances and attempt to seal arteries that have been sliced open vertically. Many listen to him, many more deride him. He is the elves’ puppet they say, or if they happen to be more open-minded: a loon. All the same, he is quickly making a name for himself because he speaks in the language of “change”, which leaves no one indifferent.

She realises that this is the inheritance of man – to trust in change, because human lives are fleeting and they cannot trust in eternity. The notion is practically incomprehensible to them. A butterfly’s memory of the world is as beautiful and intense as it is poor, while the memory of elves is a frightening thing. How does one heal such a thing? Humans too speak of engraving their deeds in world’s memory, though they care not what becomes of it tomorrow. Humans force their names into things that last longer than them in hopes they will thus live forever – in stone, in the roots of the earth, and in another’s flesh.

‘Early on, I often thought to myself: how can they stand this – to bear the fruit of their conquerors,’ he says, watching the flames. ‘This beautiful, proud race.’

He speaks to her like this often: as if she is not an elf, as if he is not a man. As if they are only two unfortunates stuck in the middle of the unsolvable, trying to make sense of it.

‘Love does not ask.’

‘Can there be love between a rapist and their victim?’ he shoots back and catches her off-guard with the paths his thoughts are treading tonight. ‘I have seen plenty of women poison themselves and claw babes out of their wombs in order to rid themselves of the pain that was put inside of them. Yet, not once, not even after the war, have I seen an elf conduct themselves so. At least not until the child is born, that is.’

Fire crackles under the trees. There is tension in his voice and in his shoulders. When his eyes do meet hers over the fire, they shift away just as quickly. Something has gone wrong; something he is not telling her that sits on his mind and which he guards with painful care.

‘A demon enters arcadia,’ he mutters, flames dancing in the depths of his warm, dark eyes. ‘Life is precious to you. I admire it with all my heart.’

‘If you live for a long time, you have the time to see and steer the outcome of many things, even some that start with evil,’ she sighs. ‘You forget though, that not so few of us would rather take our own lives before bearing into this world this pain of which you speak.’

‘I have not forgotten. There simply isn’t anything I can do for those of you,’ he looks at her sadly. ‘I am sorry.’

They fall silent. A night roost crows somewhere.

‘You are a foundling, Cregennan,’ Lara says at last. ‘Aren’t you?’

‘As ever, you know much more than I expect, my lady.’

‘You do not speak of it much –’

‘There is nothing to say.’

‘– yet I do not believe you have anything to ask forgiveness for. Why does guilt speak in you so strongly?’

‘Guilt?’ he stirs comically. ‘Can one man feel guilt for their entire race? Should he be expected to? Is this how things will improve, my lady? When everyone admits to their guilt and original sin, and flagellates themselves in public before carrying on as always?’

He throws salvaged cedar into the fire.

‘Absent intervention by gods or some otherworldly moral power, the existence of which I sadly doubt, simple mathematics will decide things. You and your elders realise this. My kinsmen do as well, though it is the way of our kings to forget what is not imminently threatening. And you are no longer threatening to us, woeful as are the circumstances that underpin this truth. I regret these circumstances, yes, but what good will it do to bemoan your fate to someone who already has you by the neck? To a greedy man, you must offer a trade; you must make him see that he has not yet squeezed everything out of you. And when he’s been placated, his children and their children, who have new toys and new problems, will forget that they once hated and feared the ones who brought so much beauty and wonder into their short lives.’

He changes when he begins speaking like this. So many emotions play in him – Lara would like to make a necklace of them all.

‘Guilt? Nay, it makes no sense, even though I feel how I feel. Tonight, I regret and am amazed – that you would find it in yourselves to agree with me, the conqueror and demon in your arcadia, while my own kind cares not at all whether our future be paradise that we achieve or a pig sty behind an eternal slaughterhouse.’

‘And so, your purpose is clear to you?’

‘Why spill blood and lose the best of both worlds if we can combine it and keep at bay the worst of all?’

‘There is not much glory to be found in peace.’

‘As you say, fame should serve a purpose beyond itself. I am not a warrior.’

‘Not much even for sorcerers. Regardless of purpose, if there is one thing that I know only too well then it is what ambition looks like.’

‘Perhaps other men have such ambitions. They are not mine,’ he shrugs. ‘There are a million and one things I haven’t done, my lady. Peace is the only way to pursue them. Peace and co-operation.’

‘Nothing has ever satisfied you, has it?’

He smirks. ‘I could ask you the same, no?’

Cregennan, though young, has a voracious appetite for knowledge and he does not discriminate on sources – a quality Sages would have approved of and capitalized on had he been born an elf and not a man. He could aspire to great things, should he so wish. Except, despite all his verve and skill with words, his definition of greatness differs from most humans’, and she knows he is telling the truth; without this sincerity, nobody would take what he preaches seriously.

Lara smiles.

‘Do you believe in prophecies, Cragen?’

Warm wind rustles in the treetops and in the leaves on the forest floor; an invisible friend. He begins to answer only to stop himself, looking at her strangely as she uses his given name – as if he could not believe something.

_Believe. Believe and do not be discouraged._

‘I am a foundling of Mirthe,’ he begins. ‘The only prophecy ever made of me was by a drunkard woman at a fair, who promised my teeth would rot out by the age of thirty and a black horse would drag my ugly corpse through the realms until even my lying bones had been ground to dust. In fairness, I was a little shit and I’ve seen a lot of the world already thanks to these lying bones of mine. Yet, one way or another, one day I’ll die a foundling – without a legacy that any prophecy could threaten, since, as you well know, my kind pays dearly for the gift of magic.’

He grins bitterly and drinks: ‘Perhaps that is why you, elves, are so open to trusting me.’

Cynicism does not become him. Not one bit.

‘I care for prophecy only insofar as it aids me in doing the most good I can here and now, in this day and age. I believe in my ideas. They are not sterile like me, but pretty explosive; perhaps you’ve heard?’

Laughter becomes him quite a bit more.

‘How was it you called yourself? A sticks-summoner? You really fit the image.’

‘A hedge-wizard. Or a hedgehog, if you prefer. That sounds more like it in Elder, doesn’t it? A hedgehog with one big idea.’

Once again, all is light and all is easy.

His toothy smile stretches toward his small ears and calls forth numerous little furrows next to eyes and lips. He reminds her of a pine marten. That quaint beard helps too. No wonder he gets along. He is handsome – for a man – though a little atypical of most magicians: he appears to actively forget about the conveniences his gift allows him and flies by the seat of his pants willingly. It borders on sloppiness and neglect of decorum, but Lara finds it funny, because Cregennan’s passion and devotion to the world of his ideas grants him an irresistible charm all the same.

She extends her goblet, waiting for him to pour. A quarter of it spills into the fire.

‘You certainly seem to be gaining Vridank’s ear.’

‘Bloody right I am! Vridank has set his eye on a half-elf himself – the beautiful Cerro. Though uncaring of magic, he’s rapidly coming to see why I “consort with the enemy”. I trust a man, even a king, to have his eyes opened once he gets personally involved with your –’

She raises an eyebrow and sips the mulled berry wine.

‘– ...charms.’

He blinks a lot, this midwife to one big and simple idea.

Then suddenly jumps up and begins stomping on his burlap to douse the sly sparks that have started nesting in it. Their horses rise their heads: Cregennan swears like a ditch digger and Lara laughs, flicking her fingers again. From an orator to a dancing bear in minutes; oh, she enjoys this greatly!

‘Careful, Cragen. Rulers reckon with their rivals first and foremost. It is lonely at the top, even if the hill is not that impressive,’ which this one world among many is not, in the grand scheme of things, ‘and an upstart magician advocating for co-existence with one’s arch-enemy is the last one they’ll want for company.’

‘Truly, you sound like a different woman entirely at times.’

‘Do I? Oh, don’t make it so complicated. Hope must be guarded. So must be its guardians.’

‘So you are giving me signs, is that it?’ he discards the ruined cloak entirely – perhaps she’ll buy him a new and better one if he listens to her; like he got her these lovely riding boots – leaving him in a dark grape-shade doublet and breeches. ‘You have been guarding my back? Ensuring I do not muck it up.’

‘In a manner of speaking.’

‘Playing your tricks on me every once in a while so I don’t get cocky?’

‘You do not feel humiliated by small tricks, I hope.’

‘Of course I do! But, sometimes I lose hope in what I do, ‘tis true,’ he muses. ‘Then I look to you.’

A pleasant shiver wraps around her spine. There is softness in the way he looks at her just there. Softness and something that makes him tense and avert his eyes before she can see, but she has already understood. She simply doesn’t want to acknowledge the yearning, for it reminds Lara of the big picture: of who she is, who is he, and worse still, of someone else’s looks entirely. It makes everything the opposite of light and easy and right.

‘Well, look “for you”, since –’ he stammers. ‘Where do you go every time you leave?’

‘I travel. Dol Blathanna. The Blue Mountains. I advise among elves the same as you do among’ – she notes his despairing gaze – ‘and what do you think I do, then?’

‘I think our conversation will come to an end if I say what I think. And you will not return again.’

Lara falls into thought.

She has thought like this a lot recently, but had hoped to wait until after... what? She has wished to talk to Cregennan honestly and freely about many, many things and hear his opinions. He has become her closest ally in this world, someone she is always happy to see. Someone who proves with his every breath that not all humans are alike. Someone whose funny face she knows she will be unable to forget. Yet she has put this man, whose passion and selflessness she admires, in a situation where she is little more than a symbol to him. A phantom – who wears diamonds in the wastes because that is what those who do not really exist do. This is Lara Dorren, forgetting and forgoing the fact that she is also Lara aep Shiadhal. Who is she fooling: him, about who she is and why she is drawn to him, or herself, about her commitment to her ideals?

‘Better forget about it,’ she hears him mutter. ‘I am only –’

But Lara has already risen, picked up the empty demijohn, and headed to the nearby spring.

The cries of the night flock echo above the moonlit woods. Cool water flows against her hands in a song that mimics the pace and truth of these lost lands. It’s primitive, but it can grow. It can become more. She stands between two worlds: the past and the future. They unfold simultaneously, irrespective of each other, and yet bound together in virtue of inhabitants who have left their impress on both. Better they had never met: her people and his. She and him. Yet, it was unavoidable. It has happened before, and it will happen again. This time like so, next time slightly different. Life has only so many options, and erasure, a blank slate, isn’t one of them. There is always only one step from the new to the long-forgotten old.

She splashes water over her face.

If she tells him, she will change his life forever. She will change her own. And her life is not only her own. What sign, what reason does she have to think it would be the right thing to do? Only this fragile feeling, deep in her heart.

Branches crack.

Arms do not wrap around her: not her father’s, not Crevan’s. But she feels safe regardless. She turns and the face that looks at her makes Lara’s heart ache – innocent somehow, wondering and pained. He blinks a lot, this son of man. His eyes are a mixture of brown and green, flecks near the pupils. No brilliant colours, no ethereal, perfect features which echo Bhel, the Fair Shining One. But he is beautiful to her. Not a stranger at all. Not the enemy. Someone she wants to know...

‘I am the demon in your arcadia.’ _This is what, then. This is his guilt._ ‘But if you just leave, then this is all that will be left behind. All there is.’

He shivers from the cold without his cloak.

Then his lips touch against hers. The hair on his face scratching skin, his palm rising but failing to connect. He is so alive where he kisses her, while the rest of him remains shackled in the hell inside his head. She feels like she is swallowing the sun.

Lara stops.

Cregennan exhales and blinks rapidly. Then nods and turns.

She catches his arm. Reaches for his funny face.

But he sees clearly now that he has given in and walks off, back into the darkness, without a word.

Lara stands at the spring for a long time.

A crow’s croaking presses in-between the rapid pulsation of her heart in her ears. She searches for it. It sits by the spring on an alder branch; staring at her. Unflinching, uncrowlike. The tree’s heart beats inside it.

She has the bird explode.

She can never be alone, no matter where she goes or how she travels.

\---//---

_When does the imperative to protect become the obligation to destroy?_

\---//---

For as long as Lara can remember, Crevan has always been the first familiar face to greet her when the cracks between the worlds close behind her. He isn’t there this time. He isn’t even at Tir ná Lia, and nobody can tell her anything concrete. Guilt, the very presence of which unsettles, burns through her like wildfire, followed by the barbed wire of false relief: how can the cause of this guilt be inconsequential then?

She must bear the brunt of the Council’s questioning on her own this time, without a guaranteed ally to meet eyes with over the rectangular pool at the centre of the open-walled temple of Bhel. What a wonderful, cold shower it is: dispelling the nonsense. They note her perplexity, she is certain of it. Let them. They shall have the same argument tomorrow. It’s all the same. The better half of the nobility doesn’t take the matter seriously and sees it as a pastime for the interim before the Alder Folk find another interesting world to play in. The other half actively hates the very idea. But when Lara has to listen to the golden-eyed son of the First Magistrate of Tir ná Lia chew her out for the umpteenth time on the healthcare and education budget provided to this “pet project of ennobling the savage” it pushes her over the edge and she excuses herself.

_To have the means and still get this?_

Carriages roll by and the street lights twinkle by the inland lagoon that is reached via sea-caves leading through a mountain range that forms a natural seawall for the capital. Dapper elves get out while kinsmen in simpler garb get in or are pulled along. Lara sometimes comes to hear how those she has saved are faring: the motherless _seidhe ichaer,_ the children of violence that Cregennan speaks about; life out of death. It’s been a sentimental and, ultimately, minor endeavour of hers – in the spirit of her mother’s wild hunts, perversely enough. Contrary to the myth of changelings that she and the Circle of Nibel have perpetuated, humans do not get anything in return. They don’t want it nor need it. Yet:

_Should children of both worlds not force their parents to reconcile?_

There is excitement on the streets. Music and laughter, and ideals thrown out into the evening air for entertainment and seduction as nobility and commoners mingle. It enhances the bitter taste in her mouth exquisitely. Is that all she has been really doing: slumming? Looking for a revelation with her “ennobled savage”?

Lara takes off in a gallop.

On winding roads covered in pine-needles, above the steep river valley where silent waterfalls fall under a getaway estate, she dismounts and carries on by foot. The heels of her riding boots she has worn since _Sidhe_ sink into the soft underbrush, leaving deep imprints in the skin of the ancient forest. Like man leaves his imprint on the world. No – like an elven princess does when slumming with a demon. _Not even!_

What a ridiculous penny dreadful!

But how magnificent it tastes when you swallow the sun, when all you have known to expect is the echo of decay! She wants to see what lies beyond, yes, she does. But will it heal? Lara laughs hysterically. He doesn’t even know who he wants. She has a duty, she has the means to complete the story however she wishes, and she has Crevan. Cregennan’s picture is beautiful, but incomplete – tremendously incomplete. It’s a pretty bubble, a dream, and she likes it so. Is that something she can allow herself? Her – the otherworldly “moral power” Cragen has no faith in. What has happened to her perspective? By the love of Dana, what!? She gets so angry for a minute she rips the boots received as gift off her feet and burns the exquisite things to a crisp.

Resting on top of a broken dolmen half-way up the path, hugging her knees to her chest, Lara recalls a story her mother once told her.

Long ago, in a different time and different world, Shiadhal had wandered by the ocean shore, brushing her thick, long hair with a golden comb. Sprays of foaming seawater had made the comb slippery to hold onto though, and it had fallen into the waves. To her great surprise a tall man with eyes like mercury had shortly risen from the sea and wished her a fair day. So enamoured with her had he become that in no time had he offered Shiadhal back not only her comb but also a golden necklace and riches and wonders yet unseen, before reaching for her lips and asking for her hand in marriage. For certain, she would have him?

‘Forever and ever he promised to carry me on his hands through the worlds. Even with treasure from the end of the rainbow he tempted me, if only I agreed to become his wife.’

‘What did you say?’

‘At first, I said I would rather jump into the sea than surrender myself to his gold and mercurial promises. At which he reminded me that in the sea he would be waiting for me. I ran off. I was young and silly like that at the time. Eventually, the ocean always meets the land.’

‘And then?’

‘I agreed, of course. Who says no to something sensible like that?’

‘And the treasure from the end of the rainbow?’

‘You’re here, aren’t you?’

Lara looks down.

A red fox has run up to her and is rubbing against her legs. It circles around her like a spinning top, soft and excited, before disappearing back into the myrtle bushes. She forces everything inside her to quieten down. Nothing ends, everything keeps on. Not of the sea but from the depths of the night woods he emerges, the one who loves her and would carry her through the worlds forever and ever. The one who can actually make his promises to her true.

_He knows. He knows. He..._

He laughs lightly.

‘Here you are – at long last.’

A piece of charred leather dangles in-between his fingers and crumbles to nothing as his happy eyes meet hers. A weight falls from Lara’s heart at the same time as it settles on her soul.

‘Are you not cold like this, _minne_? Come, I’ll –’

She has already run to him: there’s her perspective she’s lost.

‘You weren’t there,’ she whispers. ‘Why did you not wait for me?’

Lara feels him swallow heavily as he crushes her against him. Kisses in her hair are familiar and tender – loving in the way that she knows. Who would jeopardize something sensible like that? Why?

‘I only just arrived,’ he says. ‘From the Alnitak system. The portal became unstable, but it’s most curious what we –’

She lifts her finger against his lips, listening to the heartbeat against her cheek. _The guilty are always the most suspecting._ Truly only one force in the universe never ceases: stupidity.

‘Hold me,’ she murmurs, the lead on her soul dripping through the soles of her bare feet and sinking into the flesh of their shared home, leaving behind a relief that cannot but run scared.

He does as she asks.

‘I’ll tell you about the gambler octopi later.’

‘Yes. Yes, you will.’

_And then I, too, shall tell you about everything that does not matter to either of us._

They talk on their way up. She leans on his arm and he listens attentively, though Lara focuses extensively and exclusively on what he probably already knows much more about than her, due to her longest absence yet. It breeds familiarity quickly though, and she is grateful.

The Council is currently debating extending the tithe by which humans send a number of their own to be educated under the elves’ tutelage. These humans are then allowed to settle in model communities spread out along the provinces, from where the _elle_ can draw work hands for any of their projects. Though a number of strict regulations apply on these communities, it is still safer and more pleasant than being subjected to the unstable terrestrial conditions external to the areas under the elves’ control – the native human population in their world does not know magic, nor ever will. All in all, it has been a successful endeavour, insofar as some tangible differences are beginning to emerge between the natives and generations of humans who’ve grown in these communities.

‘Does the Council’s enthusiasm surprise you?’

‘It does,’ she nods. ‘Considering how most of them sneer every time our helpers overstep some ancient custom or dusty tradition, or fail to meet the at times ridiculous expectations.’

‘High expectations and consistent rewards guarantee a more lasting self-discipline further down the line.’

‘Unless the stream of encouragement and little rewards stops and they must begin choosing for themselves – strictness does breed dependence and confusion too, not only character,’ she sighs. ‘At least Ge’els still harasses me over the tax and oh, all this nonsense; a blissful normality.’

The corners of his mouth lift only ever so slightly. It worries her.

‘They are pushing for the sustained expropriation of the lands where the human population has become thinned-out,’ he explains in a moment. ‘The tithe simply formalises it in a manner that will be easier to tolerate, because the process will seem more gradual and natural to humans.’

Lara is stunned. It’s a shift overnight.

‘Since when –’

‘Since the last extensive typhoid outbreak in the East. A novel strain,’ he squeezes her hand reassuringly. ‘It will be easier and better for everyone this way, _minne_.’

Crevan eyes her carefully. She does not comment – it’s all the same – and he does not attempt to disperse the clouds either. None of this matters in the end; it’s a matter of perspective.

They walk.

When they make love that night, Lara has begun feeling much more at ease. His embrace is firm and he takes his time in-between the walls of her body to bring her down, into his domain, burning. Bring her home inside forever-flesh, where time is like molasses. She must remember the weight. Taking him in from behind, she puts her own hands on her breasts and massages her nipples, rubbing the remaining oil into skin. He wants sweets of slowness. She wants them too, but faster. Could he thrust her into a glacier, she would burn it hollow in a blink.

Why is it not enough? He is always enough.

His fingers burrow between her cheeks, inducing an additional feeling of fullness that brushes up against where he is moving deep inside her innermost territory. Lara gasps and clasps his hip. Suddenly there is much. She imagines a stubble rubbing down the side of her neck, an unfamiliar smell, hands pressing her down into decay. Brown eyes, adoring her. She is burning up. Lara imagines: both of them buried in her, filling her with life. Worshipping. Seeking. Her hand, clenching and unclenching, buries in his hair and siphons the ecstasy from their bodies. She has... _is_ much. So much. Flight pulls at her.

‘You can have such a temper, my love,’ Crevan murmurs softly, seizing the chance. ‘That poor crow.’

She comes, in upset. He pulls away before he can feel any of her sensations pass into him with the tide.

In the screaming of bodies, they look at each other.

‘It’s nothing,’ she breathes, horrified. ‘It’s nothing, it’s –’

His chest rises and falls rapidly and his eyes eat her. They eat her as she has been eating herself. He has seen inside her thoughts, she sees in his. It goes too fast, she cannot read it all. She reaches for his wrist. He moves before she can grasp it and touches her tenderly, rummaging around in her eyes. She grasps his fingers in front of her opening, helping him smear herself over her folds. It splits his attention. She does not want to ruin anyone. She does not want to hurt him. She is just... curious. Lara kisses Crevan softly, pulling him back inside of her.

Slowly.

_Nothing has to end, everything keeps on._

Crevan’s palm slides up the junction between the contours of her shoulders, resting on the back of her neck. He covers her entirely with his skin this time, clothing her as she empties herself for him. They must enfold to get out. Until there is a lot. Until she glistens with it, the insides of her thighs wet.

The following morning, she wakes alone. Wind has run goose bumps up her skin. He is not with her to warm her. She understands now why she felt so guilty over something so insignificant. It frightens and excites her to the bottom of her heart. The big and the small picture will collapse into each other. But will it heal?

She finds him on the balcony, overlooking the river valley and the silent waterfalls. He is naked except for a silk gown on his shoulders. She goes and sits next to him. How warm he is: like the sun. For a little while they sit like this, until she leans her head on his shoulder and closes her eyes.

_If you close your eyes, will it go away?_

Finally she whispers: ‘I had a vision.’

‘Was it of how I bring you another stray: a grown human, into our bed?’

She appreciates his directness so much in that moment that she begins to laugh quietly until her eyes prickle with tears. He pulls her to and kisses the top of her head.

‘If you are simply curious...’

Does a tear of laughter become a real one once it escapes the eye?

The narrative is changing.

They know it, even if they don’t.


	7. Loc’hlaith - Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi!  
> Thank you for waiting if you have waited.  
> I must admit, this has been the most difficult thing to write so far. Due to the chapter's length I have also resorted to publishing it in two parts. Therefore, it might or might not be helpful to know that the end point of Part I is actually only the middle-point of the entire chapter.
> 
> Special thanks to Xue on this one, since they helped me through a difficult dialogue bit in the middle.
> 
> Thank you for your time, your kudos and comments - they inspire and brighten my days immensely :)  
> I hope you'll enjoy!

_‘Three things will last forever: faith, hope, and love – and the greatest of these is love.’_

_-_ **1 Corinthians 13:13**

_‘Time is like the ancient Ouroboros. Time is fleeting moments, grains of sand passing through an hourglass. ... In every moment, in every instant, in every event, is hidden the past, the present and the future. Eternity is hidden in every moment. Every departure is at once a return, every farewell is a greeting, every return is a parting. Everything is simultaneously a beginning and an end.’_

_-_ **Auberon Muircetach**

Tiny gravel crunched under the Sage’s boots as he walked unhurriedly on the shore of a green lake, smooth as a mirror. He was never in a hurry, for what had he left to gain by hurrying? Water lapped gently at the shore and a small, mean wind was picking up before the descending gloaming under cloudy skies, swaying the fields of decaying lily pads and skewing the reflection of the soaring basalt tower in the lake water. A palace had stretched forth above this lake, once – a palace as elusive and treacherous as spring ice. What had become of it? It had melted, gone the way of waters’ incessant gyration, and poured back into the lake in which rested the shards of the magic mirror – a mirror that had shown its victims their purpose before all time, and induced obsession in their hearts for that and that alone.

Having come to the hoarfrost-kissed stones under the slumbering weeping willows, the elf sat and stretched out his legs, listening for the laughter from the other shore: like tiny whips striking his face. The few unicorns who grazed here always greeted the Sage thusly on his pilgrimage to the shores of the mirror lake. And he listened humbly, as one does with very old friends. The crisp air smelled of turnover and rotting leaves. Tiny snowflakes floated in the air. Nature in their realm had long lost its contentment, and its immunity before the coming of autumn, the twilight of winter. Absence had crawled into the world’s very bones, and not for all their knowledge, magic, and power had they been able to put it right. He listened, thought, and took out his flute.

_‘If the song says they were in love then that’s what happened. Such is the power of poetry. It knows no beginning, it knows no end.’_

There was a fragment of time – a memory – that still lived on the shores of the green lake: a shard, inside which spring had last stood on the forbidden door, heavy with life. Life out of death. Life that the elf had rejected. No other knew of it. Only he. For he had been present at its birth and had helped it into existence – this path, this part of the fairy tale.

_And you, my love, my Loc’hlaith, imprisoned me inside this cold tower with invisible walls which has no door to where I would rather be; condemning your protector to wait in never-ending prostration before fate – what for? For loving you and not life more?_

For the longest time he had lacked the courage to visit. He had sought oblivion elsewise, but death did not want him; it sooner offered him the throne of Avalon itself than what he longed for. Yet, the Great Serpent of Time always turned. The universe had no care for love or grief – it moved, from one state to another, forever. Life into death, death into life. Such was the story.

And he had once more begun dreaming of spring.

The brink of water was ever a place of revelations. He must come here, until past has come to pass. Playing his music, he will sit by the side of the lake on the threshold of time, and let the old tunes lead the way for the one who must find their way back to the shores at the beginning and end of the infinite. As a tender gardener of the dream, unwinding time and gently guiding it forward, he will wait.

Blowing on the cold mouthpiece, the elf set the instrument to his lips and began to play.

\---//---

Plop! Plop! Plop! Plop! Plop!

\---//---

In the anteroom to the royal chambers, it smelled of jasmine, myrrh, and amber. Pink marble glowed faintly in candle light. And it was very quiet. Eirlys had followed the _Elle_ ’s advisor here all the way from the Court of Pearls, where a masquerade was being held, but only now that they had passed the last of the prying ears had he explained what exactly he expected of her.

‘Any questions, my dear?’

‘What if his Eminence requests me to stay?’

‘Then you shall stay. And report back to me at first convenience.’

His golden eyes regarded her closely, evaluating.

‘Go in, deliver this and my messages, and return to me with information. Better yet, a sample, of whatever Auberon may have been consuming. In this precise order. Do you understand?’

‘I understand, my Lord. It is only that I... I lack the kind of a relationship with his Eminence that could justify my presence, when almost everyone is being denied –’

‘Well then, perhaps you shall obtain one, my dear? One never knows,’ he sighed with faint irritation. ‘Please try to understand, I would not resort to you nor anything like this if the situation was stable. Regrettably, it is not. You will be doing us all a great service by this pittance, starting with me – somebody you could have a kind of relationship with, hm? It helps, you know, to have friends. Especially when one is only starting out.’

She walked as silently as her shoes allowed under the glass chandeliers adorning the arched, ornate ceilings of a miniature gallery leading off from the drawing room. Her nerves urged her to keep adjusting her neckline, stressing all the singularly awful choices made for her outfit today. She had not prepared. She could not have imagined that her first meeting with their illustrious ruler, face to face, would occur in the role of a mere servant, or worse – a thief! What possible impression-making could one speak of in a situation like this? And to top it off, it appeared that the _Elle_ was not alone.

At the gallery’s end, around the turn, a slender woman stood – in a layered silver-white gown adorned with swan feathers and gauzy sleeves. Her coiffured ashen hair threw streaks of white into the voluminous styling at the back. Before her hung an enormous painting: a dark shore with a stark woman in ghostly white, wielding a gleaming black spear and mounting a frothing foam stallion that rose out of the storming sea. Sprays of seawater coiled around her, the edge of the dress tearing in salt and gale, and from above, this frenzied embrace of sea and land was witnessed by three windswept ravens: two black, one white as snow.

With the woman’s back turned and her attention on the painting, it seemed that it fell to Eirlys to take the first step. But, more aware than she seemed, the lady in white spoke first, and coldly:

‘What do you want?’

She fell into a curtsy. ‘Your Eminence!’

Indeed, the deception was thorough and brilliant – the similarity between the elf-woman on the painting and the _Elle_ as he appeared tonight was striking. Even the lines of the male’s face under glittering white paint had been transformed. All except for the eyes – the eyes remained entirely different between them; mercury in place of reviving green, Saovine instead of Belleteyn.

‘I bring what your Eminence has requested.’

‘The centrepiece? Very well. Bring it here.’ She clutched the velvet jewellery box and approached. ‘Open it.’ She did as asked.

The centrepiece consisted of a single rectangular ruby the size of a small fist, set in diamonds. It had been cut in a peculiar manner and gave the impression of multiple stones opening up inside one; like tiny portals sensitive to light’s refraction inside the gem. She had never seen anything like it, and she did not come from nothing.

‘Exactly as I remember it: magnificent,’ he spoke wistfully, running his beringed fingers along the edges of the treasure. ‘Beautiful. Yet, soulless. For it is merely a replica – entirely purposeless.’

‘It is beautiful, your Eminence. Can beauty not be its own purpose?’

‘Yes, it would seem this way. When all else is lost, at least appearances remain to salve our hearts. It’ll have to do; as our people have to.’ A finger came under her chin. ‘How do I look, _me blath_? Have I succeeded?’

Compelled like this to look upon him again, she felt unusually tranquil, the skin of her neck tingling pleasantly. Looking into these pools of softly swirling silver brought pleasant memories she was unaware of owning, and Eirlys smiled faintly. Yes, he looked truly beautiful. Most wonderful and magnificent of all the sons of Dana; in one body, untouched by age and decay, both a wise ruler – Ruadh Rofhessa – and a protector and father to all...

The _Elle_ turned abruptly, his shoulders rising and falling under a bolero made entirely of cream pearls. As if a spell had snapped, she regained hold of her thoughts, and felt slightly lightheaded. She sensed that she had not answered correctly.

‘Fearsome is the sea, yet still more powerful the land,’ he said to no one in particular. ‘Do you know what it is that you are holding? To whom it belonged?’

With the loss of his eyes on her, all calm in her heart vanished, and embarrassment rushed to burn her cheeks. ‘I am afraid I do not, your Eminence.’

He did not hasten to correct her ignorance. Only made a small gesture toward the painting, after which he turned and closed the jewellery box in her hands.

‘I am afraid beauty alone does not bring me any closer to embodying what we witness in this image, for I am but the servant in this union. For beauty’s sake though, I had to come and see if I was getting the appearance right. She would never have forgiven me if I got it so wrong as to only succeed in mocking our sacred marriage. Now follow me, please, and tell me what you really came to tell.’

They worked on him while she talked, adding finishing touches to the _Elle_ ’s make-up – as well as inspired patterns onto each other’s skin – whilst the tiny red eyes on the snake-headed torc’h around Auberon’s neck kept Eirlys in sight. He had lain back on a long gilded chair, rested his neck on a pillow, and now looked almost deadly cold in the snow white of his dress – the rare counterfeit beauty of the necklace gleaming on his chest like an open wound.

Whether he really heard her or not remained unclear, because when he spoke his speech was disjointed and did not seem to address either her or the two women attending to him. She was met with the shaking of heads and kindly, forbidding smiles when the wish to inquire arose.

Only once did he respond with lucidity: when Eirlys passed on the request for the _Elle_ ’s approval of and presence at the instating of one Caranthir Ar-Feiniel as the new junior navigator of Dearg Rhuadri.

‘This will wait,’ he said.

‘Lord First Magistrate of –’

‘Please, speak normally: it’s Ge’els.’

‘– Tir... forgive me, your Eminence,’ her breath hitched. ‘After the last three postponements, he feels it his duty to insist your Eminence acquiesce: if only to avoid displays of accidental partiality toward sorcerers, and harm to the morale among your most loyal units. The General Commander personally –’

‘Youth should be given time to think calmly about their actions: are they impactful or quite impactless? Do they create or merely change the tune, and, most importantly, are they themselves the protagonists or the supporting cast?’

Eirlys bit her lip, observing how one of the elves exchanged the silver powder box in their hand for terracotta paint.

‘I know what Eredin thinks,’ Auberon continued. ‘I know what both of them think – my sharp-set creatures of ambition. And I pity this boy. He will never be enough.

‘Perhaps Eredin can console him better in this knowledge. Perhaps. But flitting from one to another will cure nothing: he will not earn the love he craves. Nobody can replace my –’

He faltered suddenly and wheezed, as if something had gotten stuck in his throat. One of the women reached quickly for a red vial the shape of a curved horn and the size of a little finger, uncorked it, and poured a fraction of the contents into a permanently steaming silver cup. She stirred it seven times clock-wise and three times widdershins, whispering an incantation. Then held the mixture to the _Elle_ ’s face. The smell of jasmine and myrrh intensified a little, and Auberon relaxed.

Afterward, melancholy seemed to overcome the _Elle_ and Eirlys could no longer keep track of her ruler’s thoughts, which turned on themselves. She did realise though, when she departed under glass chandeliers and ornate ceilings, that while the necklace might have been fake and purposeless, the wound it filled in for certainly wasn’t.

\---//---

‘Will you tell me a story?’

‘Your mother refused?’

‘Yes. Again. She says I am the story.’

‘I see. What kind of story would you like?’

‘The kind that never ends.’

‘Every story ends, my clever one.’

‘Not when you and I tell it.’

‘Very well.’

_We ride through the night by paths the beginning of which most of us no longer remember. We have no time, though neither are we in a hurry. To get somewhere... better I answer right now, luned: I know not whether this way or that, for it matters not. Only to ride ourselves into the ground – for that we have no courage. Endlessly along the burning white lines of the empyrean. Forever in the last rows of the firmament._

_Long have we lost any care for our port of call, and for anything besides the speed and the spirit, the inky skies and the stars. The worlds’ trees pass us by as walls, a colonnade, an abyss, breaking apart before our coming. One door after another. All doors forever._

_Music!_

_From somewhere it echoes: the familiar. This pain, this feeling. Memory and longing. Why, our lament has ended long ago. To fill glasses anew, to light the narguiles afresh. Shards, blood, laughter – all this will remain of us once more. And our song alone shall accompany us and those who ride in our footsteps and those who once rode before us..._

‘Was it really so?’

‘Yes, _luned_.’

‘When?’

‘At all times. If everything goes well.’

‘Will it go well?’

‘That is something you must tell me _, elaine._ ’

A pause.

A smile.

\---//---

‘What are they like – your gods?’

‘Gods?’ Lara measures him with a long look. ‘What have you heard about gods, in whom you do not believe, that you would ask about ours?’

‘I’ve not believed before, ‘tis true, yet I cannot be so sure any longer. My life has become very strange, since you appeared. I have heard of one Queen of the Fields, a Fair Lady. _Dana Méadbh_? We, humans, give her kind another name but, like the _Aen Seidhe,_ we too hold the mother goddess and her gifts in high honours.’

‘Gifts.’ Something imperious flashes in her eyes. ‘We call her the Eternal One – we, her children.’

‘An intimidating epithet, to be sure.’

‘Can you guess why?’

‘I could. But I would be honoured to hear it from you, for who knows her better than one of her most beautiful and gifted daughters?’

‘Indeed, who would know better,’ she smiles, a little mirthlessly it seems, though the compliment has not fallen on deaf ears. ‘In mother’s love awakens hope eternal. In her words, truth unerring. Eternally she treads, loving all and everything that lives; receiving all who seek her womb, for thus is both beautiful and good. Yet One she is and One remains, and thus forever will her being shatter through her children, whose fate is akin to hers – to roam, renew, and in their life to never cease.’

He ponders these ornate crumbs of elven wisdom.

‘The cycle of eternal returns. You see yourselves and your fate in your gods’.’

‘Merely “see ourselves”? As in the clouds? A vague, funnily familiar shape and thought?’ Lara smiles mysteriously. ‘If you like. I have always been told we exist as their avatars in a mirror; some less, some more. The shape is not as important as the essence. For is it not an idea that makes a god? An inherent truth, which gives the notion its reality. Several ideas – guiding laws, if you please – permeate all. Insofar, we, the daughters of Dana, are all mother goddesses. Her blessing is our happy purpose.

‘It probably does not come as a surprise to you that although all children are precious to us, and though we do not discriminate between the sexes as you do, daughters are still precious above all.’

‘I understand,’ he nods. ‘Hearing how you speak of it though, I cannot help but think that you see yourselves as belonging more to your god – to an idea – than to yourselves. Is that so? Surely, not everyone wants to be tied to fate by one truth. As a mother goddess, for example.’

‘It is rare for elven women not to wish to walk this particular path at least once,’ she says. ‘There are constants. Constraints. They obligate us differently from you. In the face of constants, a single individual at a single point in time matters little.’

‘Come now, how can the individual be that meaningless if you cherish them in your songs the same as us? Their accomplishments, heartaches and love, actions and choices. Choices! We belong to ourselves in our choices. Happiness and unhappiness are our doing – they cannot be mandated.’

In his threescore years and ten, nobody has regarded him as this woman does, her gaze heaven-spun, as sunlight in the verdant spring dress of trees – ever-changing, unreachable. Inescapable. She laughs with him – at him, too – and by her laughter, Cregennan knows the most important thing: she is happy with him, and so, he can reach her after all.

‘Why would you suspect unhappiness? Everything goes in cycles, Cragen. Everything. And everyone has a purpose. We live longer, see more; we do not think of these things like you.’

‘But you do.’

‘I do and I do not.’

She smiles.

‘Do not smile at me like this. You have not won yet, in this hide and seek that you like.’

‘Plan, purpose, and outcome are all that matter. While happiness...’ a shadow passes over her mesmeric features. ‘Like in a story, you have to keep in mind where what is happening is meant to lead.’

Silence.

‘And god – the father? Does he not exist for you?’ he wonders. ‘Aren’t such figures as often cruel and terrible as they are great?’

‘They can be. More often though, they make nothing without their better halves, and with them they are tame enough,’ she says. ‘There’s a little of everything in everyone. In our tales as well, death forever courts with life.’

\---//---

The light of innumerable little lanterns shimmers on the dark pelt of the slow river. They’ve been lit in the sloping terrace gardens that surround the wide, shallow crossing. They float around the piers and gazebos stretching across the waters. Music rings amidst the flickering that fills the valley between steep cliffs with the shadow and brilliance of the celestial belt above. It is played from long boats with high bows and sterns that float lazily between the banks. The bride and groom have come together in the very middle of this river of light and share their joy with their guests – the entire city, by virtue of their status – from a pleasure barge. Its muslin awning is sewn with silver threads, gleaming pearls and a flush of blue roses, hinting only vaguely, through the twilight, at the fountain of worldly happiness within.

A night of summoning.

_To call something into life, to keep it there –_

In these night gardens of Ted-Nygle, the pearl of the emerging Tilath na Viell in the expanding East, Lara has been attending a ceremony to bestow her father’s blessing on the eventual wedding of this land to the magic of the children of Dana. Additionally, as is often the way, one significant occasion – one end, one beginning – attends another. The future Magistrate of these lands weds her husband with the blessing of the Aen Saevherne; with Lara’s own blessing, no less. The sheer fortune that has befallen this couple! Which branch of which project will they add to through their union, Lara honestly cannot recall, but it is evident at a glance that the participants themselves neither care, nor remember either – and that is good. Too much thought can crack love... or make it something akin to Sages’ ardour.

_– chance has nothing to do with such miracles._

Much occurs in a haze for her right now. She has not acclimatized – she has poisoned herself. Not with the “walking sickness” of those who traverse the Spiral, no; with something far worse. A restlessness has settled in her soul, and though their realm owes no allegiance to Time, somehow, she has begun feeling its bruising presence. It makes it difficult to think calmly about both the things that matter, and things that matter to Lara, and to track the plans of her allies and opponents alike. For it is hard to read the hearts of others if you are engaged in an inquisition toward your own.

_Not my heart. Theirs. For them, I exist. Their light. I have no story of my own, I am the story._

Distracted, she still bears through the eve admirably – until the refreshments, which come on like a bad dream.

She sees a number of them moving in the gardens on their side of the river and along the piers. Small, innocuous creatures. Clean-shaven, dressed to the standard, and in-keeping with the protocol reserved for events attended by aristocracy – they do themselves credit, despite the many funny looks they garner.

_An exhibition._

For what purpose? For whose pleasure? Is it because of her; for her, or aimed at her? Her eyebrows can barely settle before she notices the bleak look on her partner’s face.

And the world becomes small.

In their gazebo on the water, reserved solely for them, they are being attended to by a short, curly-haired human male who pours for the beautiful race’s mystics. Brown hair, brown eyes; clean-shaven, though. A phantasmagoria, exclusively for the two of them. Instinctively, Lara reaches for Crevan’s hand on the table, but she must do it in such haste that she startles him, because just like that the gilded goblet dips and red splashes over the table between them and their waiter. On the opposite shore, elves applaud to the river musicians. Dark water sloshes against the supporting poles under the gazebo.

‘ _Squaess’me,_ let me fix –’ she begins, but Crevan wraps his palm around her fingers, squeezing and disrupting her drying spell.

Lara frowns.

He smiles at her, barely.

The boy, startled by what he has rehearsed hundreds of times going wrong, smiles too – apologetically. For a moment, his dark eyes dart between them, and Crevan’s gaze hardens in displeasure. Tiny red droplets from the ceremony still grace his jawline in-between the flowing ritual paint in gold; black around the eyes. He cocks his head. The servant bows at once. He pulls a linen towel from his waist, kneels at the couple’s feet, and begins fixing Lara’s mistake one swipe at a time. River musicians play their praises to the grace of love.

_How did it escape my notice?_

Crevan strokes her hand while dark port wets their fingers and stains the edge of his pristinely tailored sleeve. He leans back, stretches out his legs, and watches the human working below – with unnerving interest. And in the candlelight, Lara watches him: how he cannot help himself; how the poison spreads. How the heart that sits not in Crevan’s chest but in Lara’s hands pumps it through him. She holds everything together. If she does not keep her hands clean, this is what will happen.

It blocks out the hurt and the secret reproach with which he regards her these days despite his better efforts, instilling a new understanding, a design and an end. It freezes the lakes of his eyes through. Until the waiter’s companion joins to help. Until they finish and leave. Then at last, he relaxes; then at last, he smiles again.

‘Too short?’ he asks her with that smile. ‘Or is it the temperament?’

And it is hopeless.

Someone else appears, offering apologies; checking for reactions. She barely cares or hears. Her thoughts are aeons away; except for the look on Crevan’s face, which she cannot ignore and which she believes only she is able to recognise. It bespeaks an interest which requires a perfect mask – for it is how one would look at what one is about to pick apart.

_This is how he understands it; how he imagines my desire. A novelty item laid bare and dissected, rendered harmless inside a glass container. This is the only way he is capable of accepting this._

‘Too naïve.’

‘Lara, please –’

‘What an acquired taste for entertainment. I believe I’ve lost the appetite for more.’

She stands.

So far, it has gone like this.

At first, it appears as if nothing really changes. She settles back into the rhythm of their world; into the melodies which sung her to life. The land that is now part of them sings to her with gratitude, calling her onto the secret paths in the bracken where grass bends with dewdrops. It enmeshes her in its love; biding her to forget. Here is everything. Here can be anything. With her love. It’s a very old and intricate sorcery.

And, for a little while, Lara feels closer to Crevan than ever. She clings to him when he is with her: the certainty that is him, the weight of whose heart she has only now begun to notice. Familiar and new all at once. Strange, how that works. Were fate truly as simple as fairy tales, she would bear them the child long-awaited now – a little daughter whom he already loves. A wonder in whom nestles the unfettered freedom through which they will all be reborn. One time after another. A story unending.

She wishes for it at night. It upsets him to hear of her tears in the morning.

But she cannot tell him.

Perhaps this is where their misunderstanding begins – where it has always begun? It is a burden for her, this sacred purpose. For him, it is only a blessing. Yet, for a little while, Lara wishes for their child dearly – for this absolute guarantee against mistakes, against the visions that confuse and daunt her. The suffering and hope in them concern so much more than her own person, and Lara is a young elf – still better-versed in the arts of the moment than in solving the songs of the absolute. Some things surely must be beyond question? It makes a difference not at all as to what she wishes – so rule biology and Time.

Alone – only alone can one approach the truth.

Forever she has wished for the freedom to be left alone in the middle of all that surrounds and binds her. Now she receives it. Now, with questions, Lara does feel utterly alone, and she does not like it. The clammy breath of the Absolute licks her neck at night, rendering her fearful and powerless before its demands. And she cannot tell him.

They go in circles, take turns. Of course she wants what is good, beautiful, and right – has she ever been able to want anything else? In her alarm, Lara begins to notice much – about him, about herself, about the narrative that binds them – and, in hindsight, does so at a time most dangerous: when one is seeking with their whole being, the heart always tends to speak louder than the mind. Only time can quell such fury, but for a heart that seeks there is no time for anything. There are only doubt, fear, and yearning.

_‘If you are simply curious...’_

She purses her lips, flushing.

It goes like it has always gone: Lara runs and Crevan follows, Lara sees something beautiful or fleeting and Crevan finds a way to make it hers, Lara gets in trouble and Crevan devises a solution. She can practically feel him thinking how to manage it this time.

_Manage me._

If mistakes can extort an exorbitant price then the playground of possibilities must be kept as broad as possible. It is nothing, she has assured him. And for that little while, his teasing inquires after her thoughts and quaint desires do not alarm so much as excite. They can both be very imaginative and Lara _wants_ and knows what it feels like to _have_. She has Crevan’s heart, she will have Cragen’s too. Why shouldn’t she have it all work out? Everything can be better with her love. It will be a peculiar little game they will play to see what the hidden qualities of man are. Her thoughts, or his? Does it matter? Somehow, Crevan manages it for a while – this levity – and in her uncertainty Lara, too, forgets about the seriousness of earnest feelings.

Until one evening:

_‘If you were to bring him, we would have to ensure –’_

_‘He’s infertile.’_

It spills out of her, to her own surprise and his, before he can suggest the neutering. She is shocked and he is wary – not for the same reasons.

_‘He is a young male, no? The extent of the somatic changes cannot be presumed without –’_

The cutlery clatters, the chair creaks. It assaults her like poison gas – her own heart. Not because of the logic, which is infallible, but because of her own cowardice and delusion, which make her heart scream out so loud that Lara suddenly goes deaf from the vulgarity.

_What does he believe this is – this feeling, this desire?_

In seeking reassurance, she has fallen into the pattern that has always been between the two of them over something that has never been – something pivotal and monumental tearing at her guts. Yet, this is how they differ. Lara is aware this is how Crevan likes to solve problems: from first to last, attentive to every detail, guiding everything; shaping what he clutches into something different even before it has properly managed to become itself. It would appear Lara’s own heart is now one such thing.

No, he does not understand what has infuriated her so. _‘How do I deserve this anger, trying as I am to give you what you want?’_

However, she has not even had the chance to realise what that is: in the Plan of all things, in his thoughts, or much more importantly, in her own mind. He simply paves the way somewhere!

 _‘Lara, we...’_ the astonishment in his eyes is incredible. _‘What would you expect of me? I am for you, in every way, as you are for me.’_ Incredible and unbearable. _‘I am willing – for you.’_

That look – she cannot stand to look in these eyes like this. Wrong eyes! She presses her fingers over his eyelids, forcing him to close the aquamarine holes – so repellent and infuriating to her in that moment. Wrong!

He pushes her hands away and looks at her anyway, as is his right, his desire, his duty. It’s beyond either of them. She is afraid, confused – he worries for her. She is his purpose, his heart. Nothing else matters. He only wishes to –

His, his, his – this has nothing to do with what he wishes! How many things he has touched are real and how many are just that – just his? This is not his – this is hers! She may not belong to herself, but she will have ownership over defining the vagaries of her own heart!

This is how it has gone so far.

For how long? Hard to say.

On the shore of her mother’s enchanted lake, Lara looks and listens.

The lake becomes the sea, the boundaries infinity. She has always found her way here in her upsets, into the estuary, where the tide of time meets the streams of living lands. Beyond, drowning in thick milk-white fog, awaits the promise that lives within her blood, holding calmly against the ferocious waters. Standing amidst lake weeds, she wiggles her toes in the mud, digging herself in deeper and deeper. It won’t bind her, it won’t keep her. The tide will come rushing in and sweep her along under time’s deceptive, watery surface. For a bird has begun singing in her chest – loudly, insistently. As if it were one of the three Morrigna. Violently it tears against the walls of her heart and she feels she’s going deaf in listening to its truth; blind against what the green waters know and show. Soon, the entire world will hear, and what then?

What is done out of love shall stand beyond good and evil.

She doesn’t notice him until he is already close. Water splashes against her calves and his sly fingers thread her hair, pulling it back. Something light yet hard touches below her clavicle and settles over her chest, still slightly warm from the touch of his hands. It locks around her neck, around the bird song in her throat.

‘In an unbroken chain of causes, from infinity to infinity, three alone can resurrect: faith, hope, and love,’ he speaks softly. ‘May the greatest of these be love.’

Lara touches the necklace. Light azure gems set in white gold – a blooming flower? Or... three four-leafed clovers, with an additional stone in the centre of each, on a golden stem set around three white pearls. A sky blue shamrock of three into three into three, the magical triskelion: conveying the singular idea of perfection with each of its three petals – for only a rare genetic variation yields a four-leaf clover instead of a common one.

‘For the daughter of Shiadhal,’ he says, lifting his fingers near the stones. For a moment Lara feels as if her chest opens up from within at the pulsation of power in the enchanted gift. It confirms her guess: the gems are not what they seem, and more than pretty jewellery. It is intoxicating beyond all thought and she recalls the secret words that awaken the song in her blood. She calls it off before it can take her. Before it can silence the other song she hears.

‘Is this –?’

‘Created in its spirit, not so much in its image.’ Her mother’s locket, far simpler in design, used to glow carmine in the dark, brushing the night skies as a comet in trail of her flight. ‘I had something different in mind. As per a different mistress.’

‘Oh, yes?’

‘Yes.’

They look at each other. Were she to cast the spell now and were she to succeed, what would the waters show her and him? The truth? What is that? Dark light illuminating the empty space inside hearts waiting to be filled.

In poetry, everything sounds extraordinary and happens by virtue of its own rightness. In reality, laws govern the interactions between any number of more or less fixed emergent averages. Magic brings the two closer together, but that’s it. The dice fall most favourably if the two manage to co-exist, if the mundane is handled so it becomes indistinguishable from poetry, but, strictly speaking, it is not always necessary: the dance of chromosomes, for example, does not change in the presence or absence of love poetry. And yet...

They stroll by the lakeside, side by side, while the evening gold cast through the trees shimmers on the green surface of the water and in Lara’s eyes. It’s warm tonight, but the lake water here always bites the elves. Like the frost between the stars.

‘It’s a pity for her palace,’ she muses. ‘I wish I had been able to see her illusions at their most powerful. They used to tell me mother changed after I was born. That I got the last of her warmth. I used to feel so unreasonably guilty, do you remember?’

‘Why are you thinking about this?’

_‘Look carefully, luned,’ Shiadhal says. ‘That cunning creature of your father’s will be yours soon. He will fall in love with you and you shall tame him, giving him beautiful miracle children. One hopes. On his part... well, I think giving you anything less than “worlds” would be very underwhelming. Get comfortable wanting it, for your own sake. Be mindful too: males are the more needy sex. Their appetites frequently carry them away. See that they don’t eat up your own.’_

‘By association.’ She touches the necklace, but before he can say anything Lara hushes him. ‘It’s not your fault. It is simply one of the many things I must not forget.’

Silently, they step across small pebbles, branches, and trivia.

‘I know you have been thinking about going,’ he speaks after a while. ‘Your absence makes itself felt to me long before it occurs.’

Lara’s gaze fixes on the water’s edge, as she does her best to ignore the longing notes. Swallows dash close to the lake’s green surface, nabbing their evening bites. His hand rests against her lower back.

‘If you would wait a little longer, I could come with you. This way it would be safer and more pleasant – for the both of us.’

‘I am not doing this for pleasure, Crevan.’

He bristles. She pretends not to notice.

‘We agreed, it is good for me to familiarise myself with the daily realities of those we will one day rule.’

‘Here is where your attention is most required, Lara.’

‘As to “safer”,’ she carries on, playing along. ‘What harm could occur now that did not occur then? Humans cannot begin to imagine the things me and you have seen, what we can do. They’re simply –’

‘Mercenary.’

‘– misguided.’

She comes to a halt, pulling away - but admiring the necklace - before crossing stares with him. This elf – her destiny? Perfect genes, perfect constitution. Perfect heart? Was the father to a saviour made for her, or she – the mother – made for him? He crosses his fingers, begins to pace.

‘Every one of us goes through a phase during which it is tempting to intervene in places where despair can turn to hope quickly, where something immediately thanks us with a result,’ he speaks, moving around her in half-circle. ‘ I, too, wish for a better world, Lara. With you. Yet recently you seem to prefer poorly insured bets to secure ones. As things stand in _Sidhe_ , there is no, nor will there be, balance of power for real dialogue, because dialogue can only happen between equally secure parties.’

‘To my knowledge, opening the Gate in no way measures up to correcting the systemic errors in complex, perpetually changing systems at a snap of our fingers.’

‘Neither does sharing beds.’ He stops before her, tall and serious. Dogged. ‘Or sharing secrets – I hope you have not forgotten to collect on all your labour.’

She will not grace this with a reply.

‘They will not change, Lara. Not there. It is simply too late for that. Our brothers did not engage timely and wisely. One might even say they wilfully ignored these systemic errors you mention; in overconfidence, which is now costing them dearly.

‘Evolution hardcodes for survival, which in the human race’s case entails adaptive reasoning – famously allergic to truth seeking. And they are not greatly better when left to their own devices. You have seen plenty by now. Virtue and ideals and long-term goals which do not benefit the bigwigs of the day are evolutionarily suboptimal.’

‘Ordinary elves do not have the privilege of taking a step so far out as me and you can,’ she counters. ‘They have to deal with the consequences of humans’ poverty and ignorance as they come, and require workable solutions to these problems in real time. And please, Crevan, let’s not act like elves do not share in bias and prejudice.’

‘Prejudice? You wound me, my joy - this is simple cause and effect. One we have successfully altered in this world, if you remember. Yet, even absent our special conditions, their lives are so miserably short that there is little chance for them to avoid repeating their mistakes, even should they want to. They are born to do the same thing, over and over again, because this way too one can exist – and they will.’

‘Because they are not there yet,’ she presses through her teeth. ‘I have seen plenty. The beginnings were not promising, granted, but by now I’ve certainly seen enough not to generalise toward hopelessness.’

‘Why this reality, Lara? Why bother with these humans – if this is indeed what you care about – if there are more suitable options out there to experiment on? For the question of the _Aen Seidhe_ , we already have the solution –’

‘Oh, perhaps I just find men interesting? Worth it? They can be quite exotic in their animalistic ways, you know? You have your birds, I have my animals,’ she enjoys the look of horror on his face very much. ‘How will anything get better if we do nothing? It serves us well to bring them closer to our way of thinking, to smoothen the edges. Their magicians, though they have infinitely less to work with, do not think it’s hopeless either. And since they are easier to communicate with, sharing knowledge and securing their help –’

‘Yes, I think I am aware of how easy you find it to communicate with their wizards, Lara.’

_Finally!_

Wordlessly, she begins walking again. He follows her in short order.

‘What kind of lover would I be if I was not intrigued? He is clearly taken with you.’

‘Many men have been and are taken with me. It has always meant exactly nothing to you.’

‘Is this really what you think?’

‘Of course not,’ she laughs. ‘I know you too well. You always enjoy it that much more when you can take me to bed with you after.’

It doesn’t draw the reaction she wants; if anything he looks outright unhappy now. It makes her feel as though she has wronged him, which is absurd. He catches her by the hand. Why is he allowed these looks that make her uncomfortable? When and why did she give him this power?

‘Lara... it has been long since we were first introduced,’ he begins tensely, and she senses the worst. ‘You know it does not matter to me greatly. When you are with me, everything is right, all prospects happy. However, I cannot help but think that after all this time something has changed... in how you see us. Myself. Maybe I have even given cause for it in some way and could make amends, and you simply do not wish to tell me.’

‘I see us as I’ve always seen us,’ she says quietly, unable to hold his gaze for longer. ‘Indispensable.’

‘And to you?’

It costs him dearly, all this, and it strains her. He is uniquely open before Lara: take it, reach out and have it all, no obstacles. Just have it! It seems he is perfect in this, where she, apparently, is not.

‘Crevan...’ she looks up. ‘You have to stop doing this. You have to trust me.’ She lays her hand on his cheek. ‘Where could I find another like you? You cannot be replaced. I am not a child, I don’t intend to break centuries of –’

‘What have you seen?’

She balks.

‘You had a vision _._ Having told me, you have been avoiding the subject ever since, though I think we can surmise on account of our recent quarrels that it cut close to the skin and is not unrelated to your recent fascinations, nor to the fate me and you weave,’ he lays it out with frightening, cool precision. Then his demeanour softens. ‘And it scares you. My dear heart, do you think I cannot see? Feel? It does not have to. You can tell me.’

‘I cannot! You know it does not work like this, it’s dangerous to –’

He gives a short, scornful laugh. ‘You’ll forgive me if I do not care about good practice at the moment. Not a single thing do I care about as much as I care about you, Lara. Tell me, it’s not too late. Show me and we’ll solve this. It’s a risk I am willing to take.’

‘It is not a risk _I_ am willing to take. Stop it! It is my responsibility. You are being unreasonable and afraid.’

‘As are you,’ he takes her softly by the shoulders, the chain of his gift pressing into the skin of her neck under his thumbs. ‘Is it for yourself? For our daughter?’ A small unstable glint appears in the corner of his eyes. ‘I will never let anything happen to you. I will visit enduring misery upon those who would try. I swear this to you. Upon our people’s happiness.’

Oh, she does not like this. She does not like this, she does not like this at all! This is preposterous! Why do these things happen to men, even those like him? How do you tame something like this and still get what you want? She can feel layers of clauses, conditions, and hidden traps add onto the fabric of fate that surrounds them. Were they apprentices, their teachers would enchant needle and string to sew their mouths shut for spewing so much dangerous rubbish. Words have consequences.

‘I don’t know what I would –’

She takes him by his collar, by the waist, and climbs on her toes to kiss him before he can continue this fit of stupidity. This door will remain closed – its darkness is hers to decide. If she must have which has been promised, then he must calm down, for of fate they are but servants.

He turns her around and winds his arms around her, spreading his palm over her midsection and burying his nose in her hair. Strange, how they both get that one thing similarly. In her dream, there is a child – a little girl, just as he wishes. But so... ugly. Entirely unlike either of them, though she feels connected to her by an invisible, indivisible bond.

‘You are so –’

‘I know.’

‘Maybe you have forgotten, though,' he sighs.

The bird chirps in her chest. ‘What?’

‘Does the vision reveal the truth, or do our desires yield the vision?’

_Settled in truth is fate._

She can feel his heartbeat, his words ringing in her ears and her dreams running before her eyes. Running, running, running, over the hills, across a gorge of time dust and bones. How sad, really. Gods do not gift anything – they curse you with the task of wresting knowledge and power from them, and tempt you with happiness to engage you, for it is lonely and cold in eternity. After which you shall become just like them.

_Was it thus, mother?_

‘Trust me? Please?’

‘Will you wait a little longer?’

‘Yes.’

She leaves the very same night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mythology & Concepts:  
>  **Sacred Marriage** – “Hieros Gamos” in Greek. The concept denotes the sacred marriage between two divinities (most often a mother and father god), or between a human being and a mother/father god, or between two human beings under special conditions. The purpose is most often the continuation of life (harkening to fertility rituals) and the metaphysical underpinnings of existence. Unification of two opposites is also frequently emphasised in order to get the one perfect whole.
> 
>  **Ruadh Rofhessa** – Meaning “Red One Great in Knowledge”. One of the many names for Daghda or Dagda – the leader, father figure, and druid of Tuatha De Danann. Associated with life and death, and as a father god of great, secret knowledge and skill, bearing similarities to Odin in Germanic and Nordic mythos, whose quest for secret knowledge (the highest kind of wisdom) and the sacrifices made for it are legendary. Daghda also means “good god”, not in the moral sense, but in that he is good at everything. In our lore, this bears a similarity to Aen Saevherne, given their grasp of all domains of knowledge.
> 
>  **Dana Méadbh** – Originating from Danu of the Irish mythology, in which she is thought to be a mother goddess of Tuatha Dé Danann (“The peoples of the Danu” or “Tribe of the Gods of Danu”) – the wise ones of most ancient times, also the “fairy folk”. Meadbh meanwhile translates as “she who intoxicates”, being of Irish origin. Danu is associated with land, land’s fruitfulness, fertility, and life; thus being a fundamental earth goddess, from which all power, wisdom, and fecundity of the land is poured forth. Bears similarities to the Greek Demeter. Sometimes also (incorrectly?) linked as one of the aspects of triple-goddess, The Morrigan, due to association with (feminine) energy in all its forms (maiden, mother, crone). Sometimes also considered both the original god AND goddess – an all-encompassing divine being. Danu’s symbolism comes out in flowing water, air, wind, earth, moon, amber, gold, fish, horses, and seagulls. 
> 
> Under the patronage of Danu, the Tuatha De Danann rebanded, learned new and magical skills, and returned to Ireland in a magical mist. The mist is thought to be the loving embrace of Danu herself. She is seen as having influenced them, nurturing these broken people back to strength, and imparting magic and esoteric wisdom to them. The Tuatha De Danann are the clearest representatives in Irish myths of the powers of light and knowledge. 
> 
> **Eternal Recurrence** \- Eternal recurrence –or “eternal return”, as it is sometimes called –can be described in different ways; roughly, the basic idea is that the whole history of the universe has happened before and will happen again; cosmic history is cyclic, with no beginning and no end. In particular, whenever someone dies, he or she will be born again in the next cycle of cosmic history. So even if all of us die, our death is never definitive. There is always an afterlife, and this afterlife is just like the life we live before death. In one sense, we are certainly mortal –but, in another sense, we are also immortal.
> 
>  **Lara Dorren’s Necklace** – I often wondered what it was supposed to look like and while sometimes flowers are just flowers, I re-read Buyvid Backhuysen's section in the books, which describes the surroundings of Tor Zireael (hope) with embarrassing accuracy & now I think the necklace resembles three cloverleaves forming a shamrock on a stem - like the lakes around Tor Zireael at Tarn Mira.
> 
> Thoughts & constructive criticism very much welcome.


	8. Loc’hlaith - Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here then, finally, the second part of this unforgivably long chapter. It might be of help to read the _Loc'hlaith_ chapters in direct succession (as the intro and outro line up), but I honestly do not blame you if you don't.
> 
> Thank you for your time, lovely comments & kudos, and I wish you a merry Hogmanay & a Happy New Year!

‘I had thought I would never see you again.’

He smiles sadly at her, frozen where he kneels – on top of a freshly raised burial mound. The soil oozes its last warmth, still a little soft around those it has newly accepted into its bosom. Snow swirls in the air.

‘Fate likes to bless in the afternoon, it seems; having taken from you at dawn.’

Fatigue in her limbs vanishes. She reaches for his chin, lifts up his face – and the bird that has been singing in her chest chokes. Cregennan’s bloodshot gaze is heavy like a casket, sagging under desolation and unquenched fury. She doesn’t understand, has she... she has been away for much longer than she had estimated.

_No. No-no..._

She looks and he lets her see it all.

It’s a simple story; quintessentially familiar of a world where demise is always close at hand. In a similarly clandestine fashion as they had been established, several mixed-race settlements have fallen to bloodhounds and their overly well-informed masters. Quietly and thoroughly the lackeys of the hateful have conducted themselves, as professionals ought to when handling weans and young mothers-to-be. No warnings, no echo. Only ash and bone.

‘A witcher I happen to know sent word,’ he explains. ‘Had he not been trailing his prey in the area, I’d probably still be at Ban Ard; for months. Blissfully unaware.’

The cool-headed calculation with which the operation has been executed chills the sorcerer: it is not the work of the peasantry that has come in search of these morally depraved nests of sin, these experiments of the intellectuals who claim co-existence and mixing of human and elven blood should become a model to be encouraged among all. No. A concerted strike. By whom? With whose solicitation? To keep up, Cregennan will have to start making concessions and sell himself to the right bidder – for both information and protection.

A tide of fury arises in Lara, viscous and dark as the seas of late fall.

‘I’d always known it would come to this, of course,’ the man pulls away from her, lifting the flask to his lips; throws the useless, empty thing. ‘Naively though, I had hoped I’d be able to choose the moment – a better one, if not the best.’

The sorcerer’s eyes gleam wetly under stray curls wet and heavy from snow, his aura crackling with unsteady power. She senses him drawing force from the frozen earth, but it does not materialise in any incantation Lara can recognise; because of his condition.

A futile loop.

‘Cragen –’

He gets up, sways a little. ‘Shame on me.’

She reaches out.

‘No!’ he rejects the offer. ‘No. I’ve had enough... tricks.’

The man steps back a bit in order to bow to her, but sinks in the loose soil on the edge of the mound and chortles. She has never seen him like this – a thing of beauty fading away. Decomposing. All it takes, it seems, is for her to blink and forget, and already time turns.

‘Mayhap it’s rather simple, you know? Mayhap I had simply begun to hope that this... gentle hand of providence – much like your lovely hand, indeed why not – really did guard over me in some special way. You would think us, mages, would become immune to such impressionability, but... mayhap I got distracted with this sliver of luck, hm? Could that be?’ he rasps. ‘A sliver of luck. But when I looked, the moment had passed – you were no longer there. I had only thought you were.’

An elegant flask engraved with sylphs and salamanders finds its way into the man’s hand.

‘Thus, it’s only fair: shame on me! For allowing these poor devils to rely on my delusions and conceits!’ he wipes his lips, smiling bitterly. ‘Isn’t that right, Lara? Lara-Lara-Lara. Angel of Summer Fields – will you add it all to my ever-growing bill? Will you linger at least until this little task is complete?’

She has heard enough.

‘How does this help you?’

‘It helps more than putting my faith in illusions.’

_Lying still upon one another, close as lovers, worlds touch upon green waters engulfed in white, wet fog, and are lost. Lost, like the Old Ones – forced out of the course of time, into green mounds and hollow hills amidst Mother’s mists, upon which small white flowers blossom. White as ash, as snow._

Lara latches onto Cregennan’s collar, pulling him out of the grave, and tide pushes against ravaged shores.

Claiming the man’s mouth with little grace, she wades through the bitterness of his self-pity in search of that flaring affirmation of struggle she has come to know him for. It is what he has entrusted himself with; a talisman in the dark. He has chosen it against better sense and prospects, and he does not get to throw it away! She wants it, and him: to take his freedom and fury, to give voice to them through herself. He must stay as he first happened her way – hopeful, and opposing his grim inheritance amidst death and decay with laughter.

Nothing less is enough – he must! She cannot be mistaken.

He knocks his head against a burl, the cold skin of his hands coming up around her waist, touching her in-between her robes. She shivers pleasantly and he sighs, grasping and clinging, holding onto the hope of her, and Lara smiles. _Move_ , she thinks. _Show me_. His fragmented thoughts, shattered by guilt and pain, slip back to the graves; back onto death. Biting down on his lip and taking hold of the shaggy line of his jaw, she pulls back sharply to look him in the eye.

_‘You shall never know peace again!’_

These words mean nothing to her at the sight of him.

Strands of her hair have become stuck in his, and the red... oh! Cragen’s skin flushes with life. How easily it comes to them: to death’s darlings! She laughs and he blinks, his chest heaving; disbelieving, as ever. Touching her neck, ear, entwining fingers in her hair, he shakes his head – why ever? He does not know enough to be deemed guilty of anything. Lara squeezes his jaw, moves closer in his arms, the birdsong echoing in her chest: this is what she thinks of his guilt, of self-pity, and reverence before death. This is what she thinks of all the little deaths she truly knows so much better than him. He will not let stasis and fear get the better of him; she will simply overcome him first.

Running her hand across the man’s abdomen, she wonders:

_Do we understand each other?_

Tree bark presses into her back, scratching, hurting. Cold flows wetly along bare skin. No coddling, no treaded paths. Burning lips suck on her neck and they’re both wet from the thickening snowfall, engrossed in movement and truth. It is like ice – truth.

And Lara decides.

She takes him by the hand and opens a door for them.

\---//---

Passing through a giant peristyle one could easily lose their way in, he nodded every now and again to passers-by who greeted the august commander of the Red Riders with a bow. The further in, the more concealed became the looks, the less gushing the adulation. Gossip from the palace was worth much more than gold: who walked freely here had to be party to much that was worth knowing. Few would have dared to approach him outright though, and the gaze of the rest did not arouse any special interest in him.

Soon he disappeared from the pillars, heading down a narrow corridor which intersected with others of its kind – all of them eventually culminating in apparent dead ends. Once he approached the end of the route he had known to pick over others, however, a wall hidden behind a heavy curtain creaked suspiciously and began coming apart.

_Who chimes the bells in the dead of night?_

He leaned against a frescoed wall and waited, until a fair-haired elf exited.

‘Commander!’

‘Ge’els,’ he gave a slight bow.

Eredin’s gaze lingered briefly on the servant who had accompanied his once brother-in-arms up the plummeting spiral staircase: a raven-haired, unusually tall human woman _,_ approaching her fourth, perhaps fifth decade.

‘Indeed quite fortuitous,’ the fair one spoke, while the hidden doorway drew shut, ‘to meet you like this!’

Green-eyed, quiet, and vacant-looking. Aside from the woman’s presence in these parts of the palace, there was nothing noteworthy about her, yet Eredin could not shake the sensation he had seen her somewhere before.

‘Yours?’ he indicated toward her. ‘Are you drawing inspiration for grotesques and chimeras again?’

‘Far too often you abandon us at Tir ná Lia,’ the advisor continued, as if having heard nothing, and waved the servant away. ‘Arguing in your defence is becoming quite difficult before our inconsolable ladies. My darling sister, as it would seem, among them once more.’

‘Such is business,’ he replied indifferently. ‘Do pass on my regards to Isilira.’

‘Certainly-certainly. I trust too that business is still a pleasure?’

‘As ever.’

Once, he had wondered what drove him to the brink of things: to searing blizzards, to dying and nascent civilizations across the Spiral, to the screams of life as it hatched through the breaking of smooth, pure shells of the known and familiar. It had occurred to him quickly that such musings only impeded reacting organically and seizing living moments by their rapidly voiding vessels. To be destined to desire things one could not have was only a malady brought on by one’s inability to act.

‘Have you been to Auberon? I’ve come to see him.’

‘Lately, our Leader rarely grants personal audiences.’

‘Clearly only half the truth, seeing as he has just granted one.’

A curl of discontent appeared on the gaunt elf’s lips.

‘Mm, yes. An audience would be an overstatement, I’m afraid. Trust me when I say, your business today will not achieve much.’

‘That remains to be seen,’ he gave another polite nod, ready to carry on, but it seemed fate had other plans. ‘Magistrate?’

‘I am afraid I will have to insist,’ golden eyes held against green. ‘Surely the word of his Eminence’s most faithful jurisprudent is enough for his most renowned spear?’

For a moment, the air thickened between the men, until the corners of Eredin’s lips rose in amusement.

‘From the first it was clear to me that a different bed than the Hunt’s would be required for you to truly blossom, Adjudicator. Your word – I shall hold you to it,’ he slapped his hand on the elf’s shoulder. ‘Now, let’s hear! For what reason do you think you can insist on keeping me.’

At this imposed familiarity, the First Magistrate of Tir ná Lia and recently appointed Adjudicator to the _Elle_ gave a highly qualified grimace – passing for a smile only at Court, yet suppressing the emotions bubbling under waxen skin just as well.

‘Quite simply because the incapacitated ought to be allowed their rest.’

‘Incapacitated?’ he frowned.

‘His Eminence has been on one of his little... hmm... sessions.’

‘Is that so?’ Annoyance flared in the commander’s pale greens. ‘And for how long has this one lasted?’

‘Hard to say. Detection is somewhat strenuous and his Highness’ pride, you’re certainly well-aware, puts supervision out of the question at early stages. Undoubtedly, these stabilising self-induced trances he undergoes can only confuse the mind further.’

‘Undoubtedly. Undoubtedly and unsurprisingly, granted the copious amounts of _fisstech_ on top of the medicinal cocktails he is served. Stabilisation? A prolongation of a carefully cultivated frailty seems more like it.’

The _Elle_ ’s increasing withdrawal from the public eye had been a long and arduous process, only relatively recently further exacerbated by the onset of physical frailty. Needless to say, it would not have done to fall prey to excessive pessimism – but since the prime advocate of the optimism-inducing effects of opiates was Auberon himself, it was laborious to push the point.

‘I believe I have obtained a fairly good understanding of his Eminence’s present preferences in recreational narcotics,’ Ge’els continued, regarding him closely. ‘As to the other remedies he partakes in,’ he shrugged, ‘perhaps you will manage to find a former physician who will be more forthcoming than the current ones. The Aen Saevherne is, co-incidentally, with him, so you should not worry too much.’

‘Bah! A waste of effort! I guarantee not one of them would be able to say anything more useful than Avallac’h’s lackeys, and ruining the life of someone who has served our ruler faithfully in the past over nothing is not worth it to me.’

‘Very reasonable of you,’ the blonde concurred. ‘And as presuming without evidence – even hypothetically – would be most unwise, let us avoid being unwise, shall we?’

‘You are forgetting, Magistrate, that it is my sworn duty to jump at ill hypotheticals before any can manifest and menace our beloved leader,’ Eredin said calmly. ‘It disturbs and tests the patience, to witness the breaking of a great man – a great mind! – and be forced to contend with the fact that this mind opts solely to gaze into the past, day after day, and dwell on what can no longer be changed. Maneuvered around besides, by one who bears an equal if not greater share of the blame for the state of our affairs. Meanwhile, did I not warn ahead correctly on this long ago?’

He gave a stony smile.

‘And was I not ignored over infernal love for this menace they let run wild, until she had run herself into the ground?’

\---//---

She sits on the windowsill on the upper floor of his tower, dangling a lone slipper on the tip of her toe and gazing at the heath drowning in thick grey fog. It is still too dark for anyone but elves, monsters, and witchers. Light green and yellow flames crackle in the hearth, their faint light more for show than real warmth.

Having stirred from the tortured stupor, solicited by his cherished _Borovicka_ and anise, this is how he finds her. She’s still here, he has not dreamt her – she can see relief flooding him. A faint gleam appears on her face, a hidden smile; for secretly the daughter of Shiadhal smiles forever at the power of her great beauty.

But then he sits next to her on the sill, leaning his head and bare shoulder against the cold stone, and touches the hem of her dress, regarding her quietly.

And everything turns.

She begins to speak but does not go anywhere with it, arrested by his presence, by the bursting stillness with which these warm eyes grip her. Want, wonder, questions of the very fundamental sort; it stretches – the moment. They stretch too. Time leaves through the back door and without doubt, Lara knows: this is right, this is beautiful and good.

_Yes._

She clears her throat and raises her chin.

‘How do you feel?’

‘Hopeful,’ he scrunches up his eyes at the croak of his own voice. ‘Terrible. Why not both?’

‘It’s always both.’

‘Don’t I know it!’

She shifts so her dress falls from between his fingers. He grins tiredly, reminding her again a little more of the man she knows. A faint shudder erupts along her tender shoulders. She does not want to see Cregennan as she saw him on the grave mound ever again.

‘There are places where things do not have to be as they are at worst of times,’ she eyes the edges of the honeysuckle mosaic on the window. ‘Far removed places, beyond vast seas. My people used to be able to find ways between them once feely. From one eye of the storm to another. We will go again one day, in trail of the sparks in the dead cold darkness.’

He has closed his eyes, listening.

‘I’ve seen too much of this hell to believe in otherworldly promises, but devil knows,’ he says blissfully. ‘If you represent what paradise is, take me there.’

Lara stares pensively into the fog.

‘What do you mean when you say “your people”? You are an elf, here are your people. Mine too, for better or worse.’ He taps on the glass. ‘Where will you go? Will the dwarves welcome you underground? You talk very strangely at times, Lara; ever stranger –’

‘I shall tell you,’ she stirs, enlivened. ‘Yes, I have decided.’

‘Tell me what?’

‘Everything! But you must promise to hear me out in good faith, to reserve judgment, though much may sound unbelievable at first,’ she takes him by the hand. ‘You must also swear that putting my faith in you shall not be in vain; and upon your life, you will swear this to me.’

‘Oaths? Already?’ he chortles. ‘But why, Lara – what is this for? Ever since we met, I have sworn –’

‘Swear, Cregennan of Lod!’

Ancient power commands in the elf’s voice for the moment, rolling out between them as if summoned through a crack in the firmament, and the sorcerer obeys – begrudgingly.

‘Congratulations, my lady. I believe nobody in the Brotherhood has managed to pull something like this on me yet. You have rendered your enemy powerless. Whatever will happen to him next?’

‘Time is our greatest friend and enemy, not you. Please, do not be offended; there are certain things I must do,’ she squeezes his hand. ‘You will understand in due course. Now, will you listen?’

Remnants of sleep vanish off the folds of his eyes. He nods and Lara braces herself. It’s a story of stories, and she is one of its golden pages.

‘“Places” is not entirely accurate, you know? We, Sages, have learned that what is but a dream in one realm can be an undeniable reality in another, while what is utterly ordinary there can turn out to be the most fantastic stuff of nightmares elsewhere. My people have wandered, Cragen, between many times and places. A long-long time ago. You are an educated mage who has studied the planes of power. You live side-by-side with whom you call post-Conjunction creatures, whose natural homes remain elsewhere; if they remain. Whether it matters to you or not, you admit at least theoretically to the existence of other realities.

‘And “reality” is a really good word – better even than “world”, I think. Reality is patterned, manifold – material, immaterial – and many possible worlds exist only to be gone the next. Time, Cragen! Places pass in time when the Great Serpent blinks; its eye the heart of Time. Even the reality my people presently call home is ultimately but how time looks at itself before it blinks again. It is not our first, nor will it be our last. We are simply capable of choosing a little regarding when the Great Serpent will blink next and what we will do then.’

Cregennan blinks too, but does not interrupt.

‘I asked if you believed in prophecies – do you remember?’ she draws shapes on the window that has become foggy under their breath. ‘You do not. You beautiful, learned fool! Though, perhaps that does you credit in the eyes of your race, who strive for... “rationality”, yes? Strange, don’t you think? We both know how willing you are to follow all kinds of omens and stories – superstitions, shadow theatre on the walls. It’s funny to me. But also very pretty.

‘You see, ultimately, every reality is shaped in the image of its inhabitants. Death reflects death, lack of faith the absence of true revelations and capable prophesiers. You are the child of your people and your beliefs are befitting of a world that is now becoming yours. Eventually, nothing will deny you the monopoly over truth and the means of establishing it. Yet it seems to me that you look for signs, for something to believe in, regardless. Me, for example. You look to me, Cragen. Do you know how many do? And you too.’

She runs her bare foot along his calf.

‘A shadow on your wall. An angel? Or a witch? At very least, I feel you should know that I too am the child of my people, and what that might mean for us.’

He frowns. ‘I do know.’

‘No, you do not. Be quiet and listen.’ There is ice in the depths of her sparkling emeralds. ‘This place here which me and you so wish to see changed will not last, not even should the ambitions we share come true. It has been foreseen by one of us, as put in _Aen Ithlinnespeath_. In the very end, irrespective of the in-between, another way must be found.’

‘Irrespective of the end, in-between we must live!’

‘Yes, of course! We must do that too,’ she hesitates. ‘Yet remembering the way I saw you... You should know that where I come from, things are already very different than here. And, should worse come to worst, there are other ways.’

‘But you speak of mad things, wild and bewildering things,’ he eyes her uncertainly. ‘Who of us would not have theorised at least once over the possibilities of teleportation. Seeing what’s on the far side of the moon, for example. And who would not have heard tall tales – about moving between worlds? Of the chance to lose oneself, to take oneself away from mortal life by stepping through a door and ending up where all is contrary to expectation, where answers are given to those who seek and peace to those who’ve suffered. With all due respect, the way I see it, consolations for those who are about to croak are poor fare for the living.’

‘Surely you have noticed how universally similar these “tall tales” are.’

‘In white ships came the _Aen Seidhe_ –’

‘Oh, please! Black, brown, white. Covered in picture prints and fish scale imprints, which apparently resemble fingernails to the islanders.’

‘– but we know that these are but legends, buried and mangled by the wheels of history, and forever beyond verification and proof. Monck and Alvaro have given us a run for our wits in their attempts at untangling the tongue-tying tales of the Elder Folk, yet nothing has been proven –’

‘Alder Folk,’ she corrects him once more, simply and quietly, smiling. ‘Elves of the Alders. My people.’

Not a muscle moves in the man’s handsome face. Meanwhile, everything shifts and turns inside Lara. _She is forbidden... this is forbidden._ In a way, they meet anew in that moment, while green fire crackles warmthlessly under the arc in the wall.

‘You are so still,’ she remarks. ‘Is this how man keeps his promise – by becoming petrified by it? Like a standing stone inside a circle in which we dance. Home is where I go when I leave, Cragen. Beyond seas of time. To a land where the blood of elves does not flow on dying earth. Where not a little is different and much is possible.’

She senses protests crawling to his lips, but to his credit, he squashes them all. It reassures her a little: he can control himself. Perhaps he will understand after all?

‘What is it like, this... home of yours?’

‘So you believe me?’

‘Let’s say I am giving it a chance.’

Running her finger through the condensation on the glass, she draws: thin, vertical lines set tightly next to each other, above and below, until they form a thick forest where through every opening, every crack and door, yet more trees appear, buried in the fog that still floats on the heath outdoors – an alder forest.

‘It’s a land of magic.’

‘Of Chaos?’

‘Of life and love – magnificent, civilized. It’s a land of our memories made manifest anew. Dull in its own way, would you believe? At least to me. At least where land has been settled.’

Cragen nods, pursing his lips, scratching his cheek. ‘A veritable haven then? Where no monster or human has stepped foot. One could dream such a thing.’

‘No place is that simple, but some things can be simpler in it. As it happens, humans too have a place in our world.’

‘What?’

‘Your race.’

He stares, speechless.

‘Men and women? People like me?’

‘Not exactly like you, but in principle, yes. They are not as many, there is only one strand and they are... innocent in many ways. More simple, perhaps? They have adapted to a very unforgiving environment, but behaviourally,’ she nods, ‘yes, humans like you.’

Cregennan curses. ‘And you do not kill each other? You do not have conflicts over land and power?’

‘Before your ancestors landed on these shores, there were no noteworthy conflicts between our cousins and your tribes either – with those your scholars now call the Dauk and Wozgor. Conflict is not inevitable. With the right approach.’

‘The nomadic Dauk, whose predecessors we have traced back to times predating the Conjunction of the Spheres, were quickly subdued by the Elder Races. And little is known of what became of the Wozgor who ventured to the far north beyond the Dragon Mountains; if they existed at all or were merely an invention to cover up the disappearance of the Dauk,’ he retorts. ‘I disagree. Conflict occurs when change occurs, and change is universal.’

Stories – how flexible they are, how open to being re-written. Pick up a pen and draw the first lines. His story. Her story. Of course human historians would know better than those who were actually there!

‘Ours is not a hospitable world to humanoids who cannot wield magic, but we are capable of making it so. Without us, they would have perished long ago. Therefore, they listen to us and follow our guidance. It is slightly similar to the history of our races here, but better for all,’ she thinks of Loc Muinne, of the massacre that followed the opening of the door to cooperation, to the sharing of knowledge between their races. ‘Sometimes I think of them as of children; as Dana thinks of us elves.’

_‘You love children, Lara.’_

‘They are our helpers.’

‘Helpers?’

‘Yes,’ she smiles. ‘Our helpers.’

He looks at her oddly.

‘What can they possibly help you with in this magical land if they cannot wield the Power?’

‘They help us build a better world – literally, and by maturing. No one knows everything from the start. Everyone requires some guidance to transcend their worse nature and discover the better one.’

‘They stir mortar and break rocks for you, don’t they?’

Lara’s eyes widen. Why is he looking at her like this? What is that emotion? The tension in his shoulders... She shifts uncomfortably against cold stones and tries to see, but cannot – he has closed himself off from her. Why and what does he mind – does he not want to love her?

‘When necessary, yes, they do.’

‘Who decides what’s necessary? You, I take it? Do these humans have no rulers of their own?’

‘They have their own hierarchies, some of which we’ve encouraged, others – discouraged. They do as we do for we possess the foresight and knowledge they lack. It is preferable there was no separation between magic and the state, and we are kind to those who have agreed to our terms. Guaranteed security and stability, I dare say they live healthier and happier lives than many purebred elves in this world. It’s peace, Cragen. Peace in which to pursue the million and one other things. And for the likes of me and you, there is so much out there. You cannot even imagine. Is it not beautiful – to come together for a common cause?’

‘I take it you have plenty of first-hand experience with manual labour, then?’

She stares. Hard.

‘Forgive me. I, uh –’

‘You are afraid. Why?’

He chuckles. ‘A man is wise to be wary of what he has not encountered before. Even more so should they think themselves able to recognise something in the face of the unbelievable.’

‘Which is?’

The sorcerer takes a while to mull it over before continuing; steadily, as if working on a theory.

‘These “helpers” of yours... you are like their patrons. Why?’

‘Why? Oh, Cragen! Quite simply because all life has the potential to become something more. Something worthy. You are right, for us... no, not for everyone certainly, but for me, this is a matter of ultimate value with or without the covenant.’

‘A covenant? With whom? With these humans?’

He waits but she will say no more on the matter. She cannot. And the tension does not leave him.

‘You see, Lara, that there already exists a land where elves and humans break bread together instead of drawing blood can sound strange indeed, but nay, what I find more unbelievable than anything in this story is that human nature – the nature that I know only too well – could differ so radically. And are we not alike in much, you and us? It’s strange you make no note of it. Look, you say time itself can be bent and played with... what eldritch magic must allow for such things, I will not pretend to know. But perhaps then nothing at all is as certain as it seems in this story, hm?

‘For instance, I wonder how things have worked out this differently. Is biology itself different that you are not overrun? Is mathematics? Or are gods kinder on you there than here, where they leave elf-women’s wombs barren so very often when you try amongst yourselves? Life is of highest value to you, you say, but isn’t this precisely the strongest arguments in favour of the rightness of the merging of our people – our ideas and cultures – that when your women approach our men you don’t have to wait for a miracle? That in this way you may share in the fate of your Fair Lady as her avatars in earnest. This hope of life is a great and beautiful thing to me and thus, I wonder, since so much is possible in this place you speak of, if in true coexistence and cooperation you already live – loving freely and letting love be free between our races?’

Cregennan waits patiently, but Lara does not respond.

‘Ah,’ he smiles grimly, blowing on her sketches on the glass. ‘There as here, then? A matter of differences. A matter between who is the master and who is the servant.’

‘You are not looking at this right. Moreover, I warn you: don’t ride that horse – it’s lame, Cragen. We see no senseless loss of life, whereas you slaughter yourselves just as you kill the Elder Races.’

‘I do not like anything that puts a being on their knees. Yet for all that I don’t like it doesn’t mean I cannot understand it,’ he shrugs. ‘Matters of power are the same everywhere. I am a sorcerer, and a man. Unlike these “helpers” of yours, I have perspective. What does magic make of one if not a god in the eyes of the talentless? And what is morality to gods? Or their children, for example – O Daughter of Dana? In your own words to me: a “good god” is so because they are good at everything, ergo, it is only natural they should be obeyed.’

‘Is that it? You believe we are playing gods? You – conqueror of the world.’

‘I have not conquered anything; if only perhaps your heart,’ he smiles. ‘I simply believe in the similarities between our races, for better _and_ worse. Ergo, it seems that by default, if there be peace, that peace can only be guaranteed by the existence of an insurmountable advantage over the other, no matter the advantage’s nature. Unfortunate as that may be, this at least I can believe.’

For a long time, she has wanted to hear his thoughts on the axioms that have infused her since birth; the very avatar of which she has become. With this in mind, Lara holds off the rightful sting of his oath, which would punish his passing judgment. His unfairness stems only out of lack of knowledge, fear, and imperfect understanding, not of failings of heart and character. He judges by what he knows. Besides, it is good he is not afraid of speaking his mind; it shakes her, draws her out – she cherishes it like air.

However.

‘You say you have lived for too long in this hell to believe in paradise. Would you like to see what I mean first-hand?’

Wind is picking up on the heath. For a moment, its howl in the flue is the only thing that speaks. A shadow passes over the man’s face.

‘What are you saying?’

‘I will take you along and you will learn for yourself,’ she touches the side of his face, little curls tickling her fingers. ‘Or do you think I have been telling you all this for the sake of a pretty tale?’

By the look of it, only now does Cregennan begin to realise his situation in earnest.

She slides off the window sill, slips between his thighs and takes his palm in hers. Cradling it against her chest, where the man left his caresses, she holds his gaze: in his umber irises splashes earth’s dark warmth, beaten up by the torrential rains that wash debris off gangly roots, renewing after razing. She has confused him. Can he take it? _He must._ She wishes for him to love her, to know all of her, to show her all his sides, so peculiar and interesting.

‘You must come with me; otherwise you will not understand anything.’

‘Into this fairy tale?’

‘You are not dreaming.’

‘I always knew you were something else, love,’ he laughs hoarsely, frowning, ‘but I’d much rather you didn’t take me anywhere, that we stayed as we’ve been tonight.’

‘I’d like that too,’ she nods. ‘Sadly, it is impossible.’

‘And why? Why is this impossible, of all the wildly improbable things you have just –’

‘Because me and you are not people in poems, Cragen. And I am afraid. Both of what will happen if I do not follow this,’ she strokes his wrist, ‘but also of what will if I do.’

‘Afraid of this?’ He touches her lip, his eyebrows drawing together, and with her eyes she responds to him. ‘Why? Because we would make ourselves targets in earnest? I am not friendless. It could be exactly what we need if –’

‘Because sometimes what must be written is very sad and destroys many beautiful possibilities. Because “good” does not always mean “happy”, nor vice versa, and mistakes can be dear if what one risks in good hope is not only one’s own. I am the child of my people and you –’

His large hands rise around her face, holding on firmly as he brings them close together, and she can feel the aggravation in the straining muscles in his wrists. Warm, moist breath hits her nose and lips as he asks, clearly and calmly:

‘Who are you?’

For a single, ridiculous moment she does not understand, her concern mingling with yearning, and she wonders if he suspects her of what has happened to the communities. Because so dark, and determined has become his voice; his question burrowing into her heart where half sings, half festers.

‘A woman who loves –’

‘A woman I love,’ he whispers. ‘Who is she though, to be able to promise such wondrous things? And what knowledge, what force holds her hostage that she must fall back on riddles when talking to one who has already given everything into her power happily?’

‘Cragen, you don’t realise how –’

‘Let me speak!’ he barks, holding her tightly. ‘Let me, please, for it’s something I know for certain in all this... fairy tale. I do not know what to make of all this or even of what you insinuate when you say “what this might mean for us”, but I know about the here and now. I know you believe in what I believe, and in me – much more than I myself do at times. Yesterday, you came to me in a moment I will rue forever, for it seems I still am ill-prepared for hopelessness. Entirely unlike yourself, because never have I seen you be less than what you are. You are not afraid, Lara. A flame always dances in you that can light a thousand frigid hearts. Yet now, I listen to you speak as if we had already lost something, as if the universe is conspiring against us and as if our futures were not up for choosing, and I cannot recognise the woman I have –’

‘The Lara you have known is a nobody, a blank slate!’ she snaps at last. ‘My canvas, my painting, my creation. Because would you believe it or not, the sole daughter of a ruler does not ordinarily get a chance at such freedom of expression, simply by virtue of how much she already is to everybody, from her very first moments.’

He lets go.

The woman holds her ground, smiling a bitter smile.

‘After my late mother, and in some consolation to my father, it is “Lara Dorren aep Shiadhal” if we were to put it all together – what I have created and what has created me. As you can see my concerns are not so much a matter of the here and now but of the whence and why,’ she speaks with eerie calm. ‘Whether I like it or not.’

Lara knows he believes her without needing to attempt to read his mind, because subconsciously he has entertained this notion in joking ever since they met. Humans do that – conceive of archetypes and impose them upon their daily lives to make them a little more. Even sorcerers. They are not aware how similar this impulse is to the one that allows to open doors between time and space. It is a testament to the corset that restricts humans’ thinking, but Lara thinks it charming too – the fragile beginnings are there. It reminds her of tales about the beginnings of a friendship between her people and the Eyien.

‘Do not look at me like that. The cloak and dagger was not for deceiving you but for prudence and safety; including yours. Unsurprising, don’t you think, given all you’ve heard?’

‘And why...’ he breathes in deeply, their entire conversation running through his head. ‘By devil’s spit, what has pushed you to tell me all this now?’

‘Isn’t it obvious?’ she takes a couple of steps away. ‘To leave you in the dark when you are not the only one who looks to me for hope as our fates –’

‘Who else then?’

Lara turns on her heel admiring his calm and acuteness; to the crunching of souls being ground to dust between them.

‘Come now,’ his gaze cuts her with a mixture of emotions. ‘We know already this tale is not that different from reality, and realistically, who would have ever heard of a princess who would not –’

‘– be spoken for?’

He cannot hide the jolt. It betrays the extent of her mistake in the judgment of his character, and she doesn’t know whether to weep or rejoice at the pain it brings her, but it is too late. We belong to ourselves in our choices, as he sometimes says, and Lara has ever been the peacemaker in search of middle ground.

‘You are correct. I am.’

A crooked grin, like a wound, briefly whisks across the sorcerer’s lips before he cranes his neck to look away; into the endless mists surrounding his tower.

‘You should not take it personally. It would not be the right way of looking at it.’

‘Of course not.’

‘This is not a matter of choice, but simply how it must be. We are destined, each and every one of us, for purposes greater than ourselves.’

‘And what does that mean exactly?’

‘Largely, it is a matter of genetics. He and I will have a child together.’

‘Ah, your inseminator.’

Her chest compresses.

He continues: ‘And, I take it he is as cool-headed about this as you are.’

‘He does not think like you do.’

‘I think you might be overestimating the mystery of men. Or doesn’t he know?’

‘He does. Although mostly, he knows what he thinks he knows.’

‘Much like myself then?’

Cregennan pushes off the windowsill, stalks across the room – once, twice – with green mage-fire casting his shadow on stone walls. Fruitlessly, she tries to catch his gaze. Then he takes a left, to the stairway to the upper floor, and Lara runs after him.

‘Where are you going?’

‘To sleep, Lara,’ he says, threading his fingers through his hair. ‘To sleep, because –’

She grasps him by the arm.

‘– I’d rather risk nightmares that make sense than –’

She yanks until he stops.

He turns and she sees how the red of the burst capillaries has flooded the white fields around the irises, and Lara is not able to tell if he wants to push her down the steps right there or push her against the wall, as on the graves of lovers – elves and humans – who did not live.

‘Is this it?’ she demands. ‘Is this how you choose to face problems from now on? By running away from them?’

‘Running! It is not me who chooses to run, my lady,’ he says forcefully, compelling her to take a step back. ‘It is you who runs; to another world, no less! And how very convenient for you – to fly here, offer morsels to the dumb and gullible, and have fun at their expense.’

‘Do not be unfair. Do not lower yourself like this.’

‘You ask me to come with you to this reality where all is different – in ways, I now realise, that cannot be anything but an utter nightmare for us. Why? Why would you ask something like this of me? And to call it “hope”?’ he laughs. ‘Tricks are one thing, but is it torturing me that you’ve acquired a taste for now?’

‘What would you have me do?’ she retorts. ‘I did not choose this, Cregennan! Yet, I have a responsibility. I am bound to the fate of my people and it is you who does not realise –’

‘I don’t have to! I don’t have to know either your history or whatever destiny is holding you hostage, because I know you,’ he gazes at her intensely. ‘I know the woman who does not let good be the enemy of the perfect. I know the Lara that you are writing off as an errant full moon apparition. You think I am bitter at having been fooled? You are mistaken. And you are mistaken in yet another respect. The Lara you say you have created – she is far from a blank canvas. Her dreams and desires have not grown out of the aether. Only what we choose can be the sole thing that is intended, and we are bound to what we choose to be bound to. You belong to nobody but yourself. Of this I’ve never been more certain. Or do you not see?’

‘What? That you choose to be unreasonable while I am trying to find a way for us?’

‘That I choose life and you, without compromise!’ he shouts. ‘Here and now, where it is needed most. I do not intend to run, but I am not a fool and I will not be made a fool of. We are blessed and cursed by our times, Lara. Here and now. Perhaps the curse is of our own making, but perhaps so is the blessing.’

Scraping claws tear at her in rhythm to the tambourine beat of his despair. They answer all questions in one breath – she cannot win. Not like this. It would not be worth it.

‘I understand, but you simply do not. You don’t. A zero sum –’

‘What is there to understand?’ he sighs, suddenly truly tired. ‘You are an elven princess destined for another person in another world in another life. What role are you trying to give me in any of this? What destiny? Remember the prophecy of a drunk, vengeful woman: my destiny, Lara, is death.’

‘Do not say that!’

Silence.

‘I would not be here,’ she wraps his hand in hers, ‘if it was not for you.’

The wind howls.

‘Cragen?’

‘Do you love him?’

_I love you._

‘I... it is not that simple.’

Cregennan looks at her, rusty-eyes blinking slowly.

‘Perhaps it is just that simple,’ he says. ‘Perhaps the only one you love is indeed yourself.’

\---//---

The warm air in the grotto was heavy with humidity and the slightly brassy scent of analeptic tinctures. Illuminated in its pristine blue-green hues by light shafts piercing the cavern at artificial angles, a natural hot spring sat – several springs, in fact, if one was inclined to dwell deeper. The edges of the natural depression received their outlines between glimmering stalagmites. They had been honed smooth and decorated in conventional fashion right up until a thin waterfall, which dropped from the roof of the grotto and marked a change between caverns and waters. Beyond, the waters got colder and less appealing for long soaks.

It was here, under the Moon Palace, that the Alder King came to bathe in waters infused with curative oils and naturally occurring salts and minerals – on the insistence of his chief personal physician; who was also present today.

The Knowing One walked without sound along the walls of the grotto, having folded one hand behind his back and twirling rosary beads in the other.

The Alder King looked very thin – fragile, like down feathers dissolving in electric wind. He was presently driving a spinning top in front of himself on the water and talked: sometimes to him, sometimes to shadows from the past, and sometimes to no one in particular. It was not very interesting, not after hundreds of times.

Avallac’h had created several illusions for the _Elle_ that floated under the cave walls in iridescent bubbles: there was Hazimac in his golden-speckled pelt, wise Ysri the Temperate, and even good Azuriphal – valiant, selfless Azuriphal who languished forever under the White Alder Tree in the Garden of Stories. They comforted and distracted Auberon, encircling him with scenes from his youth when the universe had still been open before him and ancient bonds kept intact. It was a little like weaving dreams, and the _archimago_ enjoyed this practice. As had his liege, once, but he was beginning to lose his touch.

A jet of water shot through the air in the spinning top’s wake. There was no denying that Auberon was quite out of touch already today, but it could still get so much worse. It’s why he had been summoned, and he knew because such occasions had become increasingly frequent. His Eminence yielded to fragmentary impulses still surviving within the recesses of the enfeebled spirit sooner or later and hammed up the dim experiencing of his mindrot-ridden memories with narcotics. Avallac’h allowed it within limits: there had to be rewards for sacrifices.

The Sage watched as Auberon Muircetach’s aide in legal and civil affairs tried in vain to arouse some resemblance of their ruler’s past wilfulness, while rolling an altogether different conversation in his mind: between himself and Destiny, over the detail of the day.

_Night forest. Fires and black smoke rising above the bloodied Lion, its throat slit, its belly scorched ‘til the soft, leaking innards. A flash of living ash hurtles through darkness. Will she find the way? Will the right soul intervene? How to help the matter a little in advance? Plenty of time, plenty of time..._

The Knowing One smiled gently, almost apologetically, in response to Ge’els’ pained expression – the Adjudicator loved his Leader dearly. Seeing the _Elle_ cast himself adrift saddened his sensitive soul. But what to do, what to do? Upon the intact mind of the prime medium depended the daily normality of the realm – none of them could allow Auberon to succumb to the final weakness that beckoned him. No, definitely not yet; not before the Plan laid out long ago fulfilled itself and gave them other options.

Enlivened by some long-repressed emotion, the _Elle_ rose suddenly, angrily, to his full height, water dripping from his boyish form, and emerged from the spring, heedless of etiquette. The Knowing One sighed and fixed the course of his stroll on his liege.

They all played their parts in Auberon’s little theatre of illusions.

There was Eredin, for example, who, in a short while, would have an interesting conversation with the First Magistrate emerging from the grotto, trailed by the half-blood; he doubted the warlord would recognise her. He – a breaker of horses and a man of relentless craving – did not like Auberon’s cyclical rumbling along long-treaded paths, which afforded greater weight to the patient wheels of Fate than to force applied to the Mechanism. He did not understand the difference between necessities and excesses. An infirm soul should not be overburdened with unfamiliar passions and untested abundances; as if that could re-ignite the flame going out. No. The big fires that Eredin loved consumed smaller, flickering ones quickly. They would consume his Caranthir one day, unless the boy... In short, it was altogether better for their White Mariner to sail on calmer waters and leave the oceans of Time to them. Or, more candidly, to _him_ , since only the glory of one person truly mattered to the leader of the Red Riders. Avallac’h would ensure Auberon would be ready and able to dip his feet into the echoes of past glories when the time was right – but for the good of all, not only select few.

All was only a matter of time.

Thus, the Sage did not mind sinking onto his knees before their Leader, his long blonde hair soiling on the mineral-rich cave floor as he touched his lips against the hem of his _Elle_ ’s robe when familiar, impotent furies came to consume him. For what kind of son would have acted unkindly to one so frail?

_‘Still you think something was taken from you – ’_

Thus, he reassured himself that he could not really be bothered by the contempt lacing the words of his once father-in-law when the grinding crystal blades of loss were let loose by _fisstech_.

_‘– when it was you who simply... lost.’_

He had come to accept that hearing the drug-addled mind of a father questioning his devotion to his daughter, to the point of accusing him of driving her to her demise, was not to be helped in such moments. 

For it was only a matter of time: until time turned.

And when the whites of Auberon’s eyes rolled forth, his body going into shock and crumbling on honed stone, the elf was long prepared.

\---//---

_Lara awakes._

_Above the river that extends toward her, she twirls. Puppets of flesh grow out of her and join in, until their bellies begin to protrude, until they are sucked dry, crumble apart, and fall into the star-embroiled river of white cold as disjointed pieces of muscle and organs. They are eaten._

_Everything is eaten in Time, and the spat out apple seeds coat the ground._

_She is fleshless, bloodless, nameless – the sun and air._

_She knows more lullabies sung to Time than any._

_She is life._

_Free._

Lara awakes.

Sunlight, impossibly bright, bounces off the glass above. The solution inside the vacuum-sealed bottle drips through the thin line running to her wrist – drip, drip, drip, drip...

‘This is how they finally got to your mother too.’

Measured and resonant, her father’s voice. Thin fingers brush against her forehead. He sits by her bedside, the flowing lead of his eyes thoughtful. She closes her eyes again. If he has come himself then she must have wandered long indeed.

Drip, drip, drip, drip.

Time drips in her veins.

The next she comes to, the smell of candle wax hits her re-invigorated senses like wind off a dragon’s wings. The apparatus for intravenous infusion is gone. He is still with her but in midnight blue now, the torc’h winking at her from underneath the sable fur-trimmed cloak – it is not the same day. Are there days, still? Oh, she got carried away badly indeed.

Smiling weakly, she thinks: _Spare me, will you?_

Auberon contemplates her quietly.

She tries her strength, lifts herself up and reaches for a glass of water. An evening breeze through an open window re-introduces the fragrance of the palace gardens – it’s always nice after traversing the Dreamlace Roads, this assault of sensations from a fixed reality. It feels so real. As if this was the truth.

They sit like this as the sun sets. It’s nice while it lasts.

‘When someone is seeking,’ he begins, ‘it often happens that she only sees the thing that she seeks; that she is unable to find anything at all, unable to absorb anything, because her thoughts are solely on the thing that she imagines she must seek, because she is acquiring an obsession with her goal and with obtaining certainty that the pursuit of her goal is justified simply in virtue of being pursued. By indulging thusly in her pain, the seeker often misses what is under her nose and finds nothing, having misunderstood everything.’

His tone betrays no anger nor any extraordinary emotion, but Lara knows why he has come and what this is about. In desperation, she has looked through many possible realities, possible futures deriving from the innumerable branches in their past. She needs more time than she has, but by his presence she knows that time is about to become short.

‘I am of your blood. How could you expect less of me than you yourself –’

‘Infinitely more!’

She winces.

He reaches forward and takes her by the chin, bringing them face to face.

‘You, my daughter, are infinitely more,’ he says coolly. ‘Life or death, which one, _ichaer_? Which one doesn’t our Lara want to be?’

_In her: the art of her father that guards the least of the lilies from fading and seasons from ever truly letting death near; the art of her mother by which she teased day-dreams and yearnings into actions._

_Aen Hen Ichaer – a Sage’s Masterpiece, his Promise and Promised._

‘You will take to heart advice from one such as myself, who has seen both sides of the coin more often than most. We do not indulge in moments. Moments, unlike our Purpose, are cheap. You, my dear, are not cheap. You are making a fool of yourself.’

Lara looks the Alder King straight in the eye: lead, aquamarine, lead, green, lead, lead, lead...

_... ice._

The walls of the palace glitter treacherously like spring ice.

‘I wish I could afford to reassure you as when you were but a little girl, but I cannot. As her mother, that little girl is lost to me, and I shall never meet her again... but such can be the price. No price is too high, _luned_ , and the moments that break something – through loss, love, or unmet expectations – do not mean we can allow ourselves to break with them. You are no longer a child. You will become a mother, to a child of your own and to our people – and you will learn.’

It’s passed out as a sentence – one she has known since birth.

‘That is the hope and this is the life. We do not sacrifice eternity for the partiality demanded by a moment’s happiness.’

He puts both of his hands around her head, kisses her brow, and speaks softly as the lake pulls her under:

‘We do not betray ourselves for an illusion.’

Lara awakes.

\---//---

‘He did not take it very well then?’

‘As well as can be expected.’

Through the entire session, Lara can feel his eyes on her, digging through her soul with the fingers of a greedy, sulking child. He hardly speaks. She speaks all the time.

It does not make a difference.

Nobody attempts to stop the most beloved daughter of the Alders on her way out of the great hall of Bhel. Nobody has to – they hang from her neck like ball and chain.

‘Was this necessary?’

‘Was it necessary to go against your word to me?’

Red-crowned cranes pass through the crepuscular rays coating the skyline, and gilded portals gleam inside marble like gold teeth in a smiling artificer’s mouth.

She whirls around.

‘My word to you? We plan for decades. Centuries! We do not alter course at a snap. I know what I stand for, Crevan, but except for a burning desire to show me my place, I do not have the slightest idea about you anymore.’

_‘A reality where all is different... an utter nightmare for –’_

‘Us,’ he mouths. ‘I stand for us.’

‘By going behind my back? By ambushing me?’

‘That you would call it like this is somewhat ironic, don’t you think?’

‘Ironic is that you would still have me feel as if you were on my side after this.’

‘And I? What about how I feel, Lara?’ he makes to close the gap between them. ‘Have you thought about it at all, recently?’

‘How you feel? You cannot hold life hostage to get back at me over feelings, yours or mine. How petty can you –’

‘Pain, Lara! I feel pain – to see you like this. That this opportunist would... To see you fall for something so obvious! To hear your utter indifference –’

‘Indenture!?’

He straightens, the sharp lines of his triangular face fixing into place. Perfect constitution, perfect control - it's sickening how perfectly he fits their mould.

‘We have been very patient. We have shown understanding unparalleled but, apparently, unappreciated. The northern tribes have not co-operated with us. Quite the opposite: they worship the Eyien. Their numbers grow. Re-education in the vein we have employed it this far is simply too inefficient under the circumstances, and for Auberon, this dangerous element –’

‘What are you doing, Crevan...’

Lara searches, desperately, for a saving grace, but nothing shifts behind the ice-capped eyes.

‘Are you punishing me?’

‘I am doing no such thing.’

She shakes her head, unbelieving. ‘You do not trust me, you are not on my side at all.’

‘Much more than trust you, Lara: I love –’

‘You are punishing me! For loving someone other than yourself!’

Silence falls between them.

Silence, silence, silence.

‘You... love him?’

Lara doesn’t know what to say. She has forgotten what words can mean.

‘Do not – do not change the subject to frivolities. It is you who is siding with warmongers and agitators, you are –’

‘Frivolities?’

‘– giving your voice and hands to plans that will lead to the eradication of their species in this sphere if fully implemented the way they would like to. You can be many things, Crevan, but “gullible” is not one of them, so perhaps –’

‘Since when have you come to treat my love of you as a frivolity, Lara!'

‘– you have simply been one of them all along!’

The mask that has strangled his face up until now has vanished. It’s all there, all of it – a terrible, crushing waterfall that pushes her under the water and will never allow to fly again.

_He is not perfect after all._

She looks away, her heart in her throat.

‘We must talk,’ she hears him mutter. ‘Later, we must –’

‘I don’t want to look at you.’

‘Please!’

Lara recoils. Tiny threads tremble around her _pneuma_. He has just used the power to make his plea binding.

‘How many times,’ the Sage utters quietly, and his eyes – her amicable and steady Crevan’s eyes – have narrowed in ugly reproach, ‘must I say please to you?’

A wet veil swims across those eyes – she glimpses at it briefly before he bows and turns, leaving, before Lara’s own eyes can follow suit.

The sorcerer’s spell tears though, when the sorceress opens and reads the triple-sealed letters someone has clandestinely left for her and rips off her breast the necklace given from his heart, somehow knowing with frightening finality that she will never return to her father’s halls again.

\---//---

It was said that the first breath – and the first look in the good god’s eyes – was always one of pure, unrestrained epiphany. Then came fear. Then, questions.

‘Shiadhal,’ a hacked intake of breath; pulse running wild. ‘My beloved Shiadhal, is she –?’

‘Her Highness is well and healthy. The procedure has been a tremendous success,’ the Knowing One replied in monotone, rehashing the past.

Without fail, Auberon always began with Shiadhal; shining, glorious Shiadhal. As he with Lara, he supposed, but –

Avallac’h interrupted filling the syringe with the sedative when the overwhelmed brain of their ruler launched another – fortunately more manageable – seizure through the system, and quickly cast three successive spells: to immobilise the muscles, to link his own life force with the patient’s, and the third to block the patient’s access to the use of power; leaving passive access intact for stabilisation further down the line.

_A sea of bones._

_Washing out of the empty crevice of the Serpent’s eye, off the worldly altars, against the sealed door – their blood. The blood of elves. A glimmer of hope torn from the Pattern, an anomaly gifted by Chaos. A promise of forever, sealed in blood._

Finding the spot, he pushed the needle in through perspiring, pale skin.

_For so long he has sorrowed for her... both of them. To taste his beloved's cool lips... to hold Lara on his knee again..._

The translucent liquid drained slowly from the barrel.

_He wants to go... just... go..._

‘Without the despair now, your Eminence. Go where?’ the Sage whispered, already intimately familiar with the routes Auberon’s thoughts took in these moments.

‘Thieves!’

Avallac’h wiped away the blood trickling from the corner of his liege’s lips, scanning for damage.

‘Petty thieves!’

‘Thieves,’ he nodded gravely, stroking the long silver locks off the _Elle’s_ forehead. ‘Ignorant, greedy, little thieves, who know not how to be grateful.’

‘Murderers!’ This simply wouldn’t do – the heart would not obey like this. ‘Get rid of them! Find them! All of them.’

‘Shh-shh-shh, they are gone now. All gone,’ he spoke softly, working swiftly in humid air as he was preparing another injection. ‘Try to put it out of your mind. Try to swim toward the shore. After all, you have already done all you could.'

_Kill the world that stole from us._

'Most justly. I shall have to do something for you now. Please, it will only take a moment.’

And as the Alder King went out and he waited for the elixir to take effect, the Knowing One caught himself thinking that considering everything, they had indeed acted more than fairly toward the _dh’oine_.

Lara.

Sweet, naïve Lara.

Butchered. 

Oh, this had not been necessary. This...the Sage closed his eyes. The Alder Folk did not harm children. Of course, there had been normal casualties that came with their struggles with the Eyien, but the remains they had taken for servants – this breed of murderous, vicious children – and thus, by stalling their Leader’s hand, he had kept his word to his Lara, hadn’t he? Lara, who had loved children.

‘The debt will be repaid,’ he spoke very quietly to the wisps of consciousness in Auberon's body. ‘Fate never errs - you are right, O _Elle._ It has been revealed to me.’

A small, satisfied smile appeared on Avallac’h’s face at the calming pulse under his fingers.

‘The Child of the Elder Blood. Lara’s blood.’

_Zireael._

‘Your faith, O Wise One... How you kept my blind self from the one thing his heart desired more than anything at the time. How you compelled us to try and accept this union which, entirely inexplicably, of course, ended up taking everything from you and me.

Your faith has alwas been unparalleled, albeit when the news came...

Or did that memory rot out first?’

Had anyone been to witness what nobody wished to witness, it might have seemed to them, that the elf’s hands shook ever so slightly at these words, as he patiently continued caring for his ruler.

_I can only hope that this time, you shall put your faith in me._

\---//---

There was a fragment of time – a memory – that still lived on the shores of the green lake: a shard, inside which spring had last stood on the forbidden door, heavy with life. Life out of death. Life that the elf had rejected...

But memory was a fickle thing.

\---//---

Lara?

He does not understand – why now?

Is that how... is that how she would have been, then? How she is now. Yes, he is crying; but why is she? Isn’t she happy? Isn’t she satisfied? Hasn’t she done exactly as she must? How beautiful she looks. So, so beautiful. He wants to embrace her so dearly, with tremendous force he wishes to press her against himself and to feel her, feel this...

Dark water rises up to his thighs. He cannot touch her. She keeps herself from him under the lake’s surface, its barrier smooth and clear as the truth.

Why!?

He has died?

Killed.

Oh.

Why won't she fly to him? He waits.

Words. Words, so many words between the two of them. The prophecy. He must understand, he will come to see... – what is it that he will see? Everything is already in motion.

Will he help her? What with?

He can help. He wants to help her. He will always.

With anything.

Forever.

But he wishes to make it disappear – this vile, lichenous creature that eats away at her. That possesses her beautiful body, her mind; that commands her hands and calls them forth in protection over its dark cave of swollen flesh, turning the precious warmth of her life solely in protection of its own budding existence, of its own blossoming decay. That steals her away from him forever.

No, he does not say these words. He would never. Never would he hurt her like this.

Forever is not for ever.

He loves her. Can't she see? So very dearly he loves that even in his heart-rending hatred of what has become of her, them, everything – no, not her, no, never; only that, this thing! – he will come to her aid. He will find her – always. Across eternity, he will find a way and bring her home, if she wishes.

If she reveals herself to him.

If only to hold her like this again; as she should have always been. In peace and understanding. In love.

With him.

For them.

Crevan says words.

And they are like birds – once let free for real, they will not return.

\---//---

Plop!

\---//---

A lively little tune resounded under the shadow of the Gate of Time, a door to hope and rebirth. A door to everywhere that could be. And on the shores of the green lake, smooth as a mirror, deceptive as truth, it once again smelled of wild roses and blooming bird cherries.

Through white blossoms she emerged, gingerly atop her harbinger, with the lake glimmering behind her. A lake in which a heart witnesses their eternity once the mists part. Almost – almost ‘til Time has turned. Almost ‘til the Great Serpent stirs.

The old tune the elf had been playing reached its end.

_At last._

Removing the flute from his lips, he stood off the round stone and smiled:

‘What took you so long? What kept you?’

_Loc’hlaith._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything regarding Lara Dorren deserves a fully fleshed out story in its own right. Why not even many stories? The possibilities are endless. However, in respect to the exploration I am conducting here, I've had to narrow it down to aspects which presently seem to me relevant in regard to how I would like to take the story and characterisations forward. Thus, by no means do I think I have covered the story of Lara in full even in regard to how I myself see it, but I think if I followed everything of interest sequentially then I would stop writing before I would get to book canon & onward. 
> 
> Fortunately, narrative is flexible and not everything has to be told in real time. For instance, the blank space between Lara's leaving her father's halls for good and her death is very much intentional, and I am certain I will be returning to many things that I have either implied at or started in these "time-bubbles" later, since from Aen Elle's perspective this is the story.
> 
> That said, I hope I have done it some justice at least.


End file.
